
Class____ . 

Book 



P E M S 



POEMS, 



HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 



ILLUSTRATED 



WITH UPWARDS OF ONE HUNDRED ENGRAVINGS ON WOOD, 



FKOM DESIGNS BY JANE E. BENHAM, EIRKET FOSTER, ETC. 



LONDON: 

DAVID BOGUE, 86, FLEET STREET 






LONDON : 

HENRY VIZKTELT.T, PRINTEB AND ENGltAVER, 

COVGH SQUARE, FLEET STREET. 






CONTENTS. 



EVAN GE LINE. 



PART THE FIRST . 
PART THE SECOND 



V U'.E 

1 



VOICES OF THE NIGHT. 



PRELUDE .... 

HYMN TO THE NIGHT . 

A PSALM OF LIFE 

THE REAPER AND THE FLOWERS 

THE LIOHT OF STARS . 

FOOTSTEPS OF ANGELS . 

FLOWERS .... 

THE BELEAGUERED CITY 

MIDNIGHT MASS FOR THE DYING YEAR 

L' ENVOI 



THE SEASIDE AND THE FIRESIDE. 



DEDICATION 



BY TIJE SEASIDE. 



THE BUILDING OF THE SHIP 

THE EVENING STAR 

THE SECRET OF THE SEA 

TWILIGHT 

SIR HUMPHREY GILBERT 



121 
138 

130 

111' 
14 1 



CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

THE LIGHTHOUSE 140 

THE FIRE OF DRIFTWOOD ......... 149 



BY THE FIRESIDE. 

RESIGNATION . . . . . . . , . . .151 

THE BUILDERS . . . . . ... . . .151 

SAND OF THE DESERT IN AN HOUR-GLASS ...... 155 

BIRDS OF PASSAGE . . . . . . . . .158 

THE OPEN WINDOW .......... 160 

KING WITLAF'S DRINKING-HORN ........ 162 

GASPAR BECERRA .......... 164 

PEGASUS IN POUND .......... 165 

TEGNERS DRAPA 168 

SONNET ON MRS. KEMBLE'S READINGS FROM SHAKSPEARE . 171 

THE SINGERS 171 

SUSPIRIA . .175 

HYMN FOR MY BROTHER'S ORDINATION . . . . . .175 



POEMS ON SLAVERY. 



TO WILLIAM E. CHANNING . . 179 

THE SLAVE'S DREAM .......... 180 

THE GOOD PART THAT SHALL NOT BE TAKEN AWAY . . . .183 

THE SLAVE IN THE DISMAL SWAMP . . . . . .184 

THE SLAVE SINGING AT MIDNIGHT . « 186 

THE WITNESSES . . . . . . . . . ... 187 

THE QUADROON GIRL .......... 189 

THE WARNING 192 

BALLADS, SONGS, AND SONNETS. 
BALLADS. 

THE SKELETON IN ARMOUR ......... 195 

THE WRECK OF THE HESPERUS ........ 201 



CONTENTS. 



SONGS. 



SEAWEED .... 

THE DAY IS DONE 
AFTERNOON IN FEBRUARY . 
TO AN OLD DANISH SONG-BOOK 
WALTER TON DER VOGELAVEIDE 
DRINKING SONG ... 
THE OLD CLOCK ON THE STAIRS 
THE ARROW AND THE SONG 



TA.GE 

209 
211 

213 
214 
218 
221 
223 



AUTUMN 

THE EVENING STAR 

DANTE . 



SONNETS. 



EARLIER POEMS. 



AN APRIL DAY 

AUTUMN ....... 

WOODS IN WINTER ..... 

HYMN OT THE MORAVIAN NUNS OF BETHLEHEM 
SUNRISE ON THE HILLS .... 

THE SPIRIT OF POETRY .... 

BURIAL OF THE MINNISINK .... 



233 
235 
237 
239 
211 
213 
215 



y 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH ..... 



ENDYMION 



THE TWO LUCKS OF HAIR 
IT IS NOT ALWAYS MAY 
THE RAINY DAY . 
GOD'S-ACRE . ... 



257 

258 
260 
26] 



CONTENTS. 



I 



TO THE RIVER CHARLES 

BLIND BARTIMEUS 

THE GOBLET OF LIFE . 

MAIDENHOOD 

EXCELSIOR .... 

CARILLON .... 

THE BELERY OE BRUGES 

A GLEAM OF SUNSHINE 

THE ARSENAL AT SPRINGFIELD 

NUREMBERG 

THE NORMAN BARON 

RAIN IN SUMMER 

TO A CHILD 

THE OCCULTATION OF ORTON 

THE BRIDGE 

TO THE DRIVING CLOUD 

CURFEW .... 



PAGE 

203 
205 

■itx 

20J 

271 
277 
280 
283 
285 
289 
293 
297 
305 
309 
312 
314 



LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. 



EVANGELINE. 

PART THE FIRST. 

I. " The murmuring pines, and the hemlocks. 

Bearded with moss, and in garments green." 



DESIGNED BY PAGE 

Birket Foster. 1 



II. " Waste are those pleasant farms, and the farmers for ever departed." Birket Foster. 2 



III. " Solemnly down the street came the parish priest, and the children 
Paused in their play to kiss the hand he extended to bless them." 



Birket Foster. 3 



IV. "Homeward serenely she walked with God's benediction upon her." Jane E. Benham, 6 



V. "Firmly builded with rafters of oak, the house of the farmer 
Stood on the side of a hill commanding the sea." 



Birket Foster. 



VI. " Farther down, on the slope of the hill, was the well with its moss-grown 
Bucket, fastened with iron, and near it a trough for the horses." 



Birket Foster. 



VII. " Many a youth, as he knelt in the church and opened his missal, 
Fixed his eyes upon her, as the saint of his deepest devotion." 



Jane E. Benham. 9 



VIII. "Father Felician, priest and pedagogue both in the village, had 
taught them their letters 
Out of the selfsame book, with the hymns of the church and the 
plain-song." 



Jane E. Benham. 10 



IX. " There at the door they stood with wondering eyes to behold him 
Take in his leathern lap the hoof of the horse as a plaything." 



Birket Foster. 11 



X. "Oft in the barns they climbed to the populous nests on the rafters." Birket Foster. 12 



LTST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. 

DESIGNED BV TAtiK 

XI. "Foremost, bearing the bell, Evangeline's beautiful heifer, 

Proud of her snow-white hide, and the ribbon that wavedfrom her 

collar." Birket Foster. 13 



XII. "Late, with the rising moon, returned the wains from the marshes, 

Laden with briny hay, that filled the air with its odour." Birket Foster. 15 

XIII. " ' Not so thinketh the folk in the village,' said, warmly, the blacksmith, 

Shaking his head, as in doubt." John Gilbert. 18 

XIV. " More than a hundred 

Children's children rode on his knee, and heard his great watch tick." John Gilbert. 20 

XV. "In friendly contention the old men 

Laughed at each lucky hit, or unsuccessful manoeuvre." John Gilbert. 21 

XVI. "Many a farewell word and sweet good-night on the door-step 

Lingered long in Evangeline's heart, and filled it with gladness." Jane E. Benham. 25 

XVII. " For Evangeline stood among the guests of her father ; 

Bright was her face with smiles, and words of welcome and gladness 

Fell from her beautiful lips, and blessed the cup as she gave it." Jane E. Benham. 27 

XVIII. " Now from the country around, from the farms and the neighbouring 
hamlets, 
Came in their holiday dresses the blithe Acadian peasants." Birket Foster. 28 

XIX. " Merrily, merrily whirled the wheels of the dizzying dances 

Under the orchard trees and down the path to the meadows." Birket Foster. 30 

XX. " Without, in the churchyard, 

Waited the women. They stood by the graves, and hung on the 

head-stones 
Garlands of autumn leaves and evergreens fresh from the forest." Birkkt Foster. 31 

XXI. " Then, all forgetful of self, she wandered into the village, 

Cheering with looks and words the disconsolate hearts of the women." Jane E. Benham. 35 

XXII. " Marching in gloomy procession 

Followed the long-imprisoned, but patient, Acadian farmers." .Tank E. Bknham. 37 



LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. 



ED EY TAGE 



XXIII. "Lowing they waited, and long, at the well-known bars of the farm- 

yard — 
"Waited and looked in vain for the voice and the hand of the milkmaid." BirKet Foster. 40 

XXIV. " Suddenly rose from the south a light, as in autumn the blood-red 

Moon climbs the crystal walls of heaven, and o'er the horizon 

Titan-like stretches its hundred hands upon mountain and meadow." Birket Foster. 42 

XXV. "Having the glare of the burning village for funeral torches, 

But without bell or book, they hurieri the farmer of Grand Pre." Birket Foster. 4.3 

XXYI. " Then recommenced once more the stir and noise of embarking ; 

And with the ebb of that tide the ships sailed out of the harbour." Birket Foster. 46 



PART THE SECOND. 



XXVII. 



" Long among them was seen a maiden who waited and wandered, 
Lowly and meek in spirit, and patiently suffering all things." 



Jane E. Benham. 47 



XXVIII. 



• Into the golden stream of the broad and swift Mississippi, 
Floated a cumbrous boat, that was rowed by Acadian boatmen. 



Birket Foster. 51 



"Now through rushing chutes, among green islands, where 
plume-like 
Cotton-trees nodded their shadowy crests, they swept with the 
current." 



Birket Foster. 5: 



XXX. "Lovely the moonlight was as it glanced and gleamed on the water." Birket Foster. 53 



XXXI. 



"Resplendent in beauty, the lotus 
Lifted her golden crown above the heads of the boatmen." 



Birket Foster. 



XXXII. " Safely their boat was moored ; and scattered about on the 
greensward, 
Tired with their midnight toil, the weary travellers slumbered." Birket Foster. j(> 



XXXIII. "Nearer and ever nearer, among the numberless islands, 

Darted a light, swift boat, that sped away o'er the water.'' 



Birket Foster. 5/ 



LIST OF ILLUSTKATIONS. 



XXXIV. 



" The house itself was of timbers 
Hewn from the cypress-tree, and carefully fitted together. 



BY PAGE 



Birket Foster. 60 



XXXV. 



1 Suddenly out of the grass the long white horns of the cattle 
Rose like flakes of foam on the adverse currents of ocean." 



Birket Foster. 62 



XXXVI. 



'Long live Michael,' they cried, 'our brave Acadian minstrel!' 
As they bore him aloft in triumphal procession." 



Jane E. Benham. 65 



XXXVII. 



" With horses and guides, and companions, 
Gabriel left the village, and took the road of the prairies." 



Birket Foster. 70 



XXXVIII. 



; Into this wonderful land, at the base of the Ozark mountains, 
Gabriel far had entered, with hunters and trappers behind him." Birket Foster. 71 



XXXIX. " Under a towering oak, that stood in the midst of the village, 
Knelt the Black Bobe chief with his children " 



Birket Foster. 76 



XL. " In that delightful land which is washed by the Delaware's waters, 
Guarding in sylvan shades the name of Penn the apostle, 
Stands on the banks of its beautiful stream the city he founded." 



Birket Foster. 80 



XLI. "Night after night, when the world was asleep, as the watchman 
repeated 
Loud, through the gusty streets, that all was well in the city, 
High at some lonely window he saw the light of her taper." 



Birket Foster. 



XLII. 



XLIII. 



XLIV, 



Day after day, in the grey of the dawn, as slow through the suburbs 
Plodded the German farmer, with flowers and fruits for the market, 
Met he that meek, pale face, returning home from its watchings." Jane E. Benham. S3 



"Through the hush that succeeded 
Whispered a gentle voice, in accents tender and saint-like, 
'Gabriel! O my beloved !' and died away into silence." 



Side by side, in their nameless graves, the lovers are sleeping, 
Under the humble walls of the little Catholic churchyard, 
In the heart of the city." 



Jane E. Benham. 87 



Birket Foster. 88 



■ Maidens still wear their Norman caps and their kirtles of homespun, 
And by the evening fire repeat Evangeline's story." 



Birket Foster. 89 



LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. 



Vll 



VOICES OF THE NIGHT. 

XLVI. " Beneath, some patriarchal tree 
I lay upon the ground." 

XLVII. " I heard the trailing garments of the Night 
Sweep through her marble halls ! " 

XLVIII. " And the mother gave, in tears and pain, 
The flowers she most did love." 

XLIX. Country Church-yard. 

L. "There is no light in earth or heaven, 
But the cold light of stars." 

LI. Flowers. 

LII. '• Then, too, the Old Year dieth, 

And the forests utter a moan." 



s'ED BY PAGE 



Birket Foster. 94 



Jane E. Benham. 98 



Jane E. Benham. 102 
Birket Foster. 103 



Birket Foster. 104 
Jane E. Benham. 108 



Birket Foster. 11* 



THE SEASIDE AND THE FIRESIDE. 



LIII. " A vessel as goodly, and strong, and staunch, 
As ever weathered a wintry sea ! " 

LIV. "Beside the Master, when he spoke, 

A youth, against an anchor leaning." 

LV. "And when the hot, long day was o'er, 
The young man at the Master's door 
Sat with the maiden calm and still." 

LVI. "And around the boughs and along the side 
The heavy hammers and mallets plied." 

LVTI. "With one exulting, joyous bound, 
She leaps into the ocean's arms ! " 

LVIII. " Lonely and lovely, a single star 

Lights the air with a dusky glimmer." 

LIX. " Saw a fair and stately galley, 

Steering onward to the land." 

LX. " A little face at the window 

Peers out into the night," 

LXI. "The twilight is sad and cloudy, 

The wind blows wild and free." 

LXII. " The Lighthouse lifts its massive masonry, 

A pillar of fire by night, of cloud by day." 



Birket Foster. 121 



Birket Foster. 125 



Birket Foster. 128 



Birket Foster. 130 



Birket Foster.' 1< 



Birket Foster. 139 



Birket Foster. HO 



Jane E. Benham. 142 



Birket Foster. 143 



Birket Foster. 

A* 



146 



LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. 



LXIII. "In that great cloister's stillness and seclusion, 
By guardian angels led." 

LXIY. "Or Mary, with the Christ of Nazareth 
Held close in her caress." 

LXV. I saw the nursery windows 
Wide open to the air." 

LXVI. " So sat they once at Christmas, 
And bade the goblet pass." 

LXVII. " The first a youth, with soul of fire, 
Held in his hand a golden lyre." 

LXVIII. " The second, with a bearded face. 

Stood singing in the market place." 

LXIX. "A gray, old man, the third and last, 
Sang in cathedrals dim and vast." 

LXX. " Like the beloved John. 

To lay his head upon the Saviour's breast." 

POEMS ON SLAVEBY. 
LXXT. Dr. Channing. 

LXXII. "And then at furious speed he rode 
Along the Niger's bank." 

LXXIII. "He crouched in the rank and tangled grass, 
Like a wild beast in his lair." 

LXXIV. " The Slaver in the broad lagoon 
La)- moored with idle sail." 



I'l >ll.M-:U IjY TAGE 



Jane E. Benham. 156 



Birkkt Foster. 160 



Biuret Foster. 162 



E. Weniiert. 172 



E. Wenhert. 173 



E. Wenhert. 174 



176 



Bikkkt Foster. 181 



Biuret Foster. 185 



Birkkt Foster. 189 



BALLADS, SONGS, AND SONNETS. 



LXXV. 
LXXVI. 



LXX VII. 



LXXVIII. 



LXXIX. 



LXXX. 



Round Tower at Newport. 

" Then launched they to the blast, 
Bent like a reed each mast." 

" And in the forest's shade 
Our vows were plighted." 

"The breakers were right beneath her bows, 
She drifted a dreary wreck." 

" At daybreak, on the bleak sea-beach, 
A fisherman stood aghast." 

" From the tumbling surf, that buries 
The Orknevan skerries." 



Birkkt Foster. 195 



Birkkt Foste 



BlRKET FOSTKU. 200 



Birket Foster. 204 



BlRKET FOSIER. 208 



Birkkt Foster. 



LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. 



LXXXI. 



LXXXII. 



LXXXIII. 



LXXXIV. 



LXXXV. 
LXXXVL 



Once Prince Frederick's Guard 
Sang- them in their smoky barracks." 

On his tomb tbe birds were feasted 
By the children of the choir." 

: Old Silenus, bloated, drunken, 
Led by his inebriate Satyrs." 

' There groups of merry children played, 
There youths and maidens dreaming strayed." 

Autumn. 

Dante : from the fresco by Giotto. 



DESIGNED BY 



Biuret Foster. 217 



Jane E.Benham. 219 



Birket Foster. 
Birket Foster. 



221 



225 

228 



EARLIER POEMS. 
LXXXVII. " Inverted in tne tide, 

Stand the gray rocks, and trembling shadows 

throw." Birket Foster. 233 

LXXXVIII. " And merrily, with oft-repeated stroke, 

Sounds from the threshing-floor the busy flail." Birket Foster. 235 
LXXXIX. "O'er the bare upland, and away 

Through the long reach of desert woods." Birket Foster. 238 

XC. " And the wild horn, whose voice the woodland fills, 
Was ringing to the merry shout, 
That faint and far the glen setout." 



XCI. 



XCTI. 



XCI II. 



xcv. 



XCVL 
XCVII. 



"In the green valley, where the silver brook, 
From its full laver, pours the white cascade." 

"And a band 
Of stern in heart, and strong in hand, 
Came winding down beside the wave, 
To lay the red chief in his grave." 

" And swift an arrow cleaved its way 
To his stern heart ! " 

MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

" Under a spreading chesnut tree 
The village smithy stands." 

' ' He hears his daughter's voice 
Singing in the village choir." 

'•The rising moon has hid the stars." 

Diana. 



Birket Foster. 242 



Birket Fosier. 243 



Birket Foster. 246 



Birket Foster. 248 



Birket Fosier. 251 

Birket Foster. 253 
Birket Foster. 254 
Jane E.Benham. 25G 



LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. 



XCVIII. " The sun is bright, the air is clear, 

The darting swallows soar and sing." 

XCIX. "Enjoy the Spring of Love and Youth." 

C. " This is the field and Acre of our God, 

This is the place, where human harvests grow !" 

CI. "River ! that in silence windest 

Through the meadows, bright and free." 

CII. " Gazing, with a timid glance, 

On the brooklet's swift advance, 
On the river's broad expanse!" 

CIII. " A voice replied, far up the height, 
Excelsior!" 

CIV. " In the market place of Bruges stands the belfry old 
and brown." 

CV. "This is the place. Stand still, my steed, 
Let me review the scene." 

C VI. House of Albrecht Durer, 

CVII. Albrecht Durer, from the portrait by himself. 

CVIII. " In his chamber, weak and dying, 
Was the Norman baron lying." 

CIX. " In the hall, the serf and vassal 

Held, at night, their Christmas wassail." 

CX. "Near at hand, 

From under the sheltering trees, 

The farmer sees 

His pastures, and his fields of grain." 

CXI. " With what a look of proud command 
Thou shakest in thy little hand 
The coral rattle with its silver bells." 

CXII. Residence of H. W. Longfellow, (formerly occupied 
by Washington.) 

CXIII. "Thou comest back to parley with repose." 

CXIV. " The moon was pallid, but not faint ; 
And beautiful as some fair saint." 

CXV. " I stood on the bridge at midnight." 
CXVI. " Dark grow the windows, 

And quenched is the fire." 



DESIGNED til PAGE 

Birket Foster. 259 
Birket Foster. 260 

Birket Foster. 262 

Birket Foster. 263 

Jane E. Benham. 269 

Jane E. Benham. 272 

Birket Foster. 277 

Birket Foster. 280 
Birket Foster. 284. 

288 

Biuret Foster. 289 
Birket Foster. 290 



Birket Foster. 293 



Jane E. Benham. 298 



Birket Foster. 300 
Jane E. Benham. 302 



Jane E. Benham. 307 
Birket Foster. 309 



Birket Foster, oil 



EVANGELINE 



PART THE FIRST. 



2 EVANGELINE. 

This is the forest primeval ; but where are the hearts that beneath it 
Leaped like the roe, when he hears in the woodland the voice of the 

huntsman ? 
Where is the thatch-roofed village, the home of Acadian farmers, — 
Men whose lives glided on like rivers that water the woodlands, 
Darkened by shadows of earth, but reflecting an image of heaven ? 
Waste are those pleasant farms, and the farmers for ever departed ! 
Scattered like dust and leaves, when the mighty blasts of October 
Seize them, and whirl them aloft, and sprinkle them far o'er the ocean. 
Naught but tradition remains of the beautiful village of Grand Pre. 

Ye who believe in affection that hopes, and endures, and is patient, 
Ye who believe in the beauty and strength of woman's devotion, 
List to the mournful tradition still sung by the pines of the forest ; 
List to a Tale of Love in Acadie, home of the happy. 





I. 



In the Acadian land, on the shores of the Basin of Minas, 
Distant, secluded, still, the little Tillage of Grand Pre 
Lay in the fruitful valley. Vast meadows stretched to the eastward, 
Giving the village its name, and pasture to flocks without number. 
Dikes, that the hands of the farmers had raised with labour incessant, 
Shut out the turbulent tides ; but at stated seasons the flood-gates 
Opened, and welcomed the sea to wander at will o'er the meadows. 
West and south there were fields of flax, and orchards and cornfields, 
Spreading afar and unfenced o'er the plain ; and away to the northward 
Blomidon rose, and the forests old, and aloft on the mountains 
Sea-fogs pitched their tents, and mists from the mighty Atlantic 
Looked on the happy valley, but ne'er from their station descended. 



4 EVANGELINE. 

There, in the midst of its farms, reposed the Acadian village. 
Strongly built were the houses, with frames of oak and of chesnut, 
Such as the peasants of Normandy built in the reign of the Henries. 
Thatched were the roofs, with dormer windows; and gables 

projecting 
Over the basement below protected and shaded the door-way. 
There in the tranquil evenings of summer, when brightly the sunset 
Lighted the village street, and guilded the vanes on the chimneys, 
Matrons and maidens sat in snow-white caps, and in kirtles 
Scarlet and blue and green, with distaffs spinning the golden 
Flax for the gossiping looms, whose noisy shuttles within doors 
Mingled their sound with the whir of the wheels and the songs of the 

maidens. 
Solemnly down the street came the parish priest, and the children 
Paused in their play to kiss the hand he extended to bless them. 
Reverend walked he among them ; and uprose matrons and maidens, 
Hailing his slow approach with words of affectionate welcome. 
Then came the labourers home from the field, and serenely the 

sun sank 
Down to his rest, and twilight prevailed. Anon from the belfry 
Softly the Angelus sounded, and over the roofs of the village 
Columns of pale blue smoke, like clouds of incense ascending, 
Rose from a hundred hearths, the homes of peace and contentment. 
Thus dwelt together in love these simple Acadian farmers, — 
Dwelt in the love of God and of man. Alike were they free from 
Fear, that reigns with the tyrant, and envy, the vice of republics. 
Neither locks had they to their doors, nor bars to their windows ; 



EVANGELINE. 5 

But their dwellings were open as day and the hearts of the owners ; 
There the richest was poor, and the poorest lived in abundance. 

Somewhat apart from the village, and nearer the Basin of Minas, 
Benedict Bellefontaine, the wealthiest farmer of Grand Pre, 
Dwelt on his goodly acres ; and with him, directing his household, 
Gentle Evangeline lived, his child, and the pride of the village. 
Stalwart and stately in form was the man of seventy winters ; 
Hearty and hale was he, an oak that is covered with snow-flakes ; 
White as the snow were his locks, and his cheeks as brown as the 

oak leaves. 
Fair was she to behold, that maiden of seventeen summers. 
Black were her eyes as the berry that grows on the thorn by the wayside, 
Black, yet how softly they gleamed beneath the brown shade of her 

tresses ! 
Sweet was her breath as the breath of kine that feed in the meadows. 
When in the harvest heat she bore to the reapers at noontide 
Flagons of home-brewed ale, ah ! fair in sooth was the maiden. 
Fairer was she when, on Sunday morn, while the bell from its turret 
Sprinkled with holy sounds the air, as the priest with his hyssop 
Sprinkles the congregation, and scatters blessings upon them, 
Down the long street she passed, with her chaplet of beads and her 

missal, 
Wearing her Norman cap, and her kirtle of blue, and the ear-rings, 
Brought in the olden time from France, and since, as an heir-loom, 
Handed down from mother to child, through long generations. 
But a celestial brightness — a more ethereal beauty — 



EVANGELINE, 



Shone on her face and encircled her form, when, after confession, 
Homeward serenely she walked with God's benediction upon her. 




When she had passed, it seemed like the ceasing of exquisite music. 
Firmly builded with rafters of oak, the house of the farmer 
Stood on the side of a hill commanding the sea ; and a shady 
Sycamore grew by the door, with a woodbine wreathing around it. 
lludely carved was the porch, with seats beneath ; and a foot-path 



EVANGELINE. 







Led through an orchard wide, and disappeared in the meadow. 
Under the sycamore tree were hives overhung by a pent-house, 
Such as the traveller sees in regions remote by the road-side, 
Built o'er a box for the poor, or the blessed image of Mary. 
Farther down, on the slope of the hill, was the well with its moss-grown 
Bucket, fastened with iron, and near it a trough for the horses. 
Shielding the house from storms, on the north, were the barns and the 
farm-vard. 



8 EVANGELINE. 

There stood the broad- wheeled wains and the antique ploughs and 

the harrows ; 
There were the folds for the sheep ; and there, in his feathered seraglio, 
Strutted the lordly turkey, and crowed the cock, with the selfsame 
Voice that in ages of old had startled the penitent Peter. 




Bursting with hay were the barns, themselves a village. In each one 
Far o'er the gable projected a roof of thatch; and a staircase, 
Under the sheltering eaves, led up to the odorous corn-loft. 
There too the dovecot stood, with its meek and innocent inmates 
Murmuring ever of love ; while above in the variant breezes 
Numberless noisy weathercocks rattled and sang of mutation. 



Thus, at peace with God and the world, the farmer of Grand Pre 
Lived on his sunny farm, and Evangeline governed his household. 



EVANGELINE. 




Many a youth, as he knelt in the church and opened his missal, 
Fixed his eyes upon her, as the saint of his deepest devotion ; 
Happy was he who might touch her hand or the hem of her garment ! 
Many a suitor came to her door, by the darkness befriended, 
And as he knocked, and waited to hear the sound of her footsteps, 
Knew not which beat the louder, his heart or the knocker of iron ; 
Or at the joyous feast of the Patron Saint of the Tillage, 
Bolder grew, and pressed her hand in the dance as he whispered 

c 



10 EVANGELINE. 

Hurried words of love, that seemed a part of the music. 
But, among all who came, young Gabriel only was welcome ; 
Gabriel Lajeunnesse, the son of Basil the blacksmith, 
Who was a mighty man in the village, and honoured of all men ; 
For since the birth of time, throughout all ages and nations, 
Has the craft of the smith been held in repute by the people. 
Basil was Benedict's friend. Their children from earliest childhood 
Grew up together as brother and sister ; and Father Felician, 




EVANGELINE. 11 

Priest and pedagogue both in the village, had taught them their letters 
Out of the selfsame book, with the hymns of the church and the 

plain- song. 
But when the hymn was sung, and the daily lesson completed, 
Swiftly they hurried away to the forge of Basil the blacksmith. 
There at the door they stood, with wondering eyes to behold him 
Take in his leathern lap the hoof of the horse as a plaything, 




Nailing the shoe in its place ; while near him the tire of the cart-wheel 
Lay like a fiery snake, coiled round in a circle of cinders. 
Oft on autumnal eves, when without in the gathering darkness 
Bursting with light seemed the smithy, through every cranny and 

crevice, 
"Warm by the forge within they watched the labouring bellows, 
And as its pantings ceased, and the sparks expired in the ashes, 
Merrily laughed, and said they were nuns going into the chapel. 



12 EVANGELINE. 

Oft on sledges in winter, as swift as the swoop of the eagle, 
Down the hill-side bounding, they glided away o'er the meadow. 
Oft in the barns they climbed to the populous nests on the rafters, 
Seeking with eager eyes that w^ondrous stone, which the swallow 
Brings from the shore of the sea to restore the sight of its fledglings ; 
Lucky was he who found that stone in the nest of the swallow ! 
Thus passed a few. swift years, and they no longer were children. 
He was a valiant youth, and his face, like the face of the morning, 
Gladdened the earth with its light, and ripened thought into action. 
She was a woman now, with the heart and hopes of a woman. 
" Sunshine of Saint Eulalie" was she called ; for that was the sunshine 
Which, as the farmers believed, would load their orchards with apples ; 
She, too, would bring to her husband's house delight and abundance, 
Filling it full of loye and the ruddy faces of children. 




EVANGELINE. 




II. 



Now had the season returned, when the nights grow colder and longer, 

And the retreating sun the sign of the Scorpion enters. 

Birds of passage sailed through the leaden air, from the ice-bound, 

Desolate northern bays to the shores of tropical islands. 

Harvests were gathered in ; and wild with the winds of September 

Wrestled the trees of the forest, as Jacob of old with the angel. 

All the signs foretold a winter long and inclement. 

Bees, with prophetic instinct of want, had hoarded their honey 

Till the hives overflowed ; and the Indian hunters asserted 

Cold would the winter be, for thick was the fur of the foxes. 

Such was the advent of autumn. Then followed that beautiful season, 

Called by the pious Acadian peasants the Summer of All-Saints 



14 EVANGELINE. 

Filled was the air with a dreamy and magical light ; and the land- 
scape 
Lay as if new-created in all the freshness of childhood. 
Peace seemed to reign upon earth, and the restless heart of the ocean 
Was for a moment consoled. All sounds were in harmony blended. 
Voices of children at play, the crowing of cocks in the farm-yards, 
Whir of wings in the drowsy air, and the cooing of pigeons, 
All were subdued and low as the murmurs of love, and the great sun 
Looked with the eye of love through the golden vapours around him, 
While arrayed in its robes of russet and scarlet and yellow, 
Bright with the sheen of the dew, each glittering tree of the forest 
Flashed like the plane-tree the Persian adorned with mantles and 
jewels. 

Now recommenced the reign of rest and affection and stillness. 
Day with its burden and heat had departed, and twilight descending 
Brought back the evening star to the sky, and the herds to the 

home-stead. 
Pawing the ground they came, and resting their necks on each other, 
And with their nostrils distended inhaling the freshness of evening. 
Foremost, bearing the bell, Evangeline's beautiful heifer, 
Proud of her snow-white hide, and the ribbon that waved from her 

collar, 
Quietly paced and slow, as if conscious of human affection. 
Then came the shepherd back with his bleating flocks from the 

sea-side, 
Where was their favourite pasture. Behind them followed the 

watch-dog. 



EVANGELINE. 15 

Patient, full of importance, and grand in the pride of his instinct, 
Walking from side to side with a lordly air, and superbly 
Waving his bushy tail, and urging forward the stragglers ; 
Regent of flocks was he when the shepherd slept ; their protector, 
When from the forest at night, through the starry silence, the wolves 
howled. 




Late, with the rising moon, returned the wains from the marshes, 
Laden with briny hay, that filled the air with its odour. 
Cheerily neighed the steeds, with dew on their manes and their fetlocks, 
While aloft on their shoulders the wooden and ponderous saddles, 
Painted with brilliant dyes, and adorned with tassels of crimson, 
Nodded in bright array, like hollyhocks heavy with blossoms. 



16 EVANGELINE. 

Patiently stood the cows meanwhile, and yielded their ndders 
Unto the milkmaid's hand ; whilst loud and in regular cadence 
Into the sounding pail the foaming streamlets descended. 
Lowing of cattle and peals of laughter were heard in the farm-yard, 
Echoed back by the barns. Anon they sank into stillness ; 
Heavily closed, with a creaking sound, the valves of the barn-doors, 
Rattled the wooden bars, and all for a season was silent. 

In-doors, warm by the wide-mouth fireplace, idly the farmer 
Sat in his elbow-chair, and watched how the flames and the smoke- 
wreaths 
Struggled together like foes in a burning city. Behind him, 
Nodding and mocking along the wall, with gestures fantastic, 
Darted his own huge shadow, and vanished away into darkness. 
Faces clumsily carved in oak, on the back of his arm-chair 
Laughed in the nickering light, and the pewter plates on the dresser 
Caught and reflected the flame, as shields of armies the sunshine. 
Fragments of song the old man sang, and carols of Christmas, 
Such, as at home, in the olden time, his fathers before him 
Sang in their Norman orchards and bright Burgundian vineyards. 
Close at her father's side was the gentle Evangeline seated, 
Spinning flax for the loom, that stood in the corner behind her. 
Silent awhile were its treadles, at rest was its diligent shuttle, 
While the monotonous drone of the wheel, like the drone of a 

bagpipe, 
Followed the old man's song, and united the fragments together. 
As in a church, when the chant of the choir at intervals ceases. 



EVANGELINE. 17 

Footfalls are heard in the aisles, or words of the priest at the altar, 
So, in each pause of the song, with measured motion the clock clicked, 

Thus as they sat, there were footsteps heard, and, suddenly lifted, 
Sounded the wooden latch, and the door swung back on its hinges. 
Benedict knew by the hob-nailed shoes it was Basil the blacksmith, 
And by her beating heart Evangeline knew who was with him. 
" Welcome ! " the farmer exclaimed, as their footsteps paused on the 

threshold. 
" Welcome, Basil, my friend ! Come, take thy place on the settle 
Close by the chimney-side, which is always empty without thee ; 
Take from the shelf overhead thy pipe and the box of tobacco ; 
Never so much thyself art thou, as when, through the curling 
Smoke of the pipe or the forge, thy friendly and jovial face gleams, 
Round and red as the harvest moon through the mist of the marshes." 
Then, with a smile of content, thus answered Basil the Blacksmith, 
Taking with easy air the accustomed seat by the fireside : — 
" Benedict Bellefontaine, thou hast ever thy jest and thy ballad ! 
Ever in cheerfullest mood art thou, when others are filled with 
Gloomy forebodings of ill, and see only ruin before them. 
Happy art thou, as* if every day thou hadst picked up a horseshoe." 
Pausing a moment, to take the pipe that Evangeline brought him, 
And with a coal from the embers had lighted, he slowly continued : — 
" Four days now are passed since the English ships at their anchors 
Ride in the Gasperau's mouth, with their cannon pointed against us. 
What their design may be is unknown ; but all are commanded 
On the morrow to meet in the church, where His Majesty's mandate 

D 



18 EVANGELINE. 

"Will be proclaimed as law in the land. Alas ! in the meantime 

Many surmises of evil alarm the hearts of the people." 

Then made answer the farmer: — " Perhaps some friendlier purpose 

Brings these ships to our shores. Perhaps the harvests in England 

By the untimely rains or untimelier heat have been blighted, 

And from our bursting barns they would feed their cattle and children." 




" Not so thinkcth the folk in the village," said, warmly, the blacksmith, 
Shaking his head, as in doubt ; then, heaving a sigh, he continued: — 



EVANGELINE. 19 

" Louisburg is not forgotten, nor Beau Sejour, nor Port Royal. 
Man} r already have fled to the forest, and lurk on its outskirts, 
Waiting with anxious hearts the dubious fate of to-morrow. 
Arms have been taken from us, and warlike weapons of all kinds ; 
Nothing is left but the blacksmith's sledge and the scythe of the 

mower." 
Then with a pleasant smile made answer the jovial farmer : — 
" Safer are we unarmed, in the midst of our flocks and our corn fields, 
Safer within these peaceful dikes, besieged by the ocean, 
Than were our father in forts, besieged by the enemy's cannon. 
Fear no evil, my friend, and to-night may no shadow of sorrow 
Fall on this house and hearth ; for this is the night of the contract. 
Built are the house and the barn. The merry lads of the village 
Strongly have built them and well ; and, breaking the glebe round 

about them, 
Filled the barn with hay, and the house with food for a twelvemonth. 
Rene Leblanc will be here anon, with his papers and inkhorn. 
Shall we not then be glad, and rejoice in the joy of our children ? " 
As apart by the window she stood, with her hand in her lover's, 
Blushing Evangeline heard the words that her father had spoken, 
And as they died on his lips the worthy notary entered. 



EVANGELINE, 




III. 



Bent like a labouring oar, that toils in the surf of the ocean, 
Bent, but not broken, by age was the form of the notary public ; 
Shocks of yellow hair, like the silken floss of the maize, hung 
Over his shoulders ; his forehead was high ; and glasses with horn bows 
Sat astride on his nose, with a look of wisdom supernal. 
Father of twenty children was he, and more than a hundred 
Children's children rode on his knee, and heard his great watch tick. 



EVANGELINE. o| 

Four long years in the times of the war had he languished a 

captive, 
Suffering much in an old French fort as the friend of the English. 
Now, though warier grown, without all guile or suspicion, 
Ripe in wisdom was he, but patient, and simple, and childlike. 
He was beloved by all, and most of all by the children ; 
For he told them tales of the Loup-garou in the forest, 
And of the goblin that came in the night to water the horses, 
And of the white Letiche, the ghost of a child who unchristened 
Died, and was doomed to haunt unseen the chambers of children ; 
And how on Christmas eve the oxen talked in the stable, 
And how the fever was cured by a spider shut up in a nut-shell, 
And of the marvellous powers of four-leaved clover and horseshoes, 
With whatsoever else was writ in the lore of the village. 
Then up rose from his seat by the fireside Basil the blacksmith, 
Knocked from his pipe the ashes, and slowly extending his right hand, 
" Father Leblanc," he exclaimed, " Thou hast heard the talk in the 

village, 
And, perchance, canst tell us some news of these ships and their 

errand." 
Then with modest demeanour made answer the notary public : — 
" Gossip enough have I heard, in sooth, yet am never the wiser ; 
And what their errand may be I know not better than others. 
Yet am I not of those who imagine some evil intention 
Brings them here, for we are at peace ; and why then molest us ? " 
" God's name ! " shouted the hasty and somewhat irascible black- 
smith : 



n . EVANGELINE. 

"Must we in all things look for the how, and the why, and the 

wherefore? 
Daily injustice is done, and might is the right of the strongest ! " 
But, without heeding his warmth, continued the notary public: — 
" Man is unjust, but God is just ; and finally justice 
Triumphs ; and well I remember a story, that often consoled me, 
When as a captive I lay in the old French fort at Port Royal." 
This was the old man's favourite tale, and he loved to repeat it 
Whenever neighbours complained that any injustice was done them. 
" Once in an ancient city, whose name I no longer remember, 
Raised aloft on a column, a brazen statue of Justice 
Stood in the public square, upholding the scales in its left hand, 
And in its right a sword, as an emblem that justice presided 
Over the laws of the land, and the hearts and homes of the people. 
Even the birds had built their nests in the scales of the balance, 
Having no fear of the sword that flashed in the sunshine above them. 
But in the course of time the laws of the land were corrupted ; 
Might took the place of right, and the weak were oppressed, and 

the mighty 
Ruled with an iron rod. Then it chanced in a nobleman's palace 
That a necklace of pearls was lost, and ere long a suspicion 
Fell on an orphan girl who lived as maid in the household. 
She, after form of trial condemned to die on the scaffold, 
Patiently met her doom at the foot of the statue of Justice. 
As to her father in heaven her innocent spirit ascended, 
Lo ! o'er the city a tempest rose ; and the bolts of the thunder 
Smote the statue of bronze, and hurled in wrath from its left hand 



EVANGELINE. 23 

Down on the pavement below the clattering- scales of the balance, 
And in the hollow thereof was found the nest of a Magpie, 
Into whose clay-built walls the necklace of pearls was inwoven." 
Silenced, but not convinced, when the story was ended, the 

blacksmith 
Stood like a man who fain would speak, but fmdeth no language ; 
And all his thoughts congealed into lines on his face, as the vapours 
Freeze in fantastic shapes on the window-panes in the winter. 

Then Evangeline lighted the brazen lamp on the table, 
Filled, till it overflowed, the pewter tankard with home-brewed 
Nut-brown ale, that was famed for its strength in the village 

of Grand Pre ; 
While from his pocket the notary drew his papers and ink-horn, 
Wrote with a steady hand the date and the age of the parties, 
Naming the dower of the bride in flocks of sheep and in cattle. 
Orderly all things proceeded, and duly and well were completed. 
And the great seal of the law was set like a sun on the margin. 
Then from his leathern pouch the farmer threw on the table 
Three times the old man's fee in solid pieces of silver ; 
And the notary rising, and blessing the bride and the bridegroom, 
Lifted aloft the tankard of ale and drank to their welfare. 
Wiping the foam from his lip, he solemnly bowed and departed, 
While in silence the others sat and mused by the fireside, 
Till Evangeline brought the draught-board out of its corner. 
Soon was the game begun. In friendly contention the old men 
Laughed at each lucky hit, or unsuccessful manoeuvre ; 



EVANGELINE. 



Id 




Laughed when a man was crowned, or a breach was made in the 

king-row. 
Meanwhile, apart, in the twilight gloom of a window's embrasure, 
Sat the lovers, and whispered together, beholding the moon rise 
Over the pallid sea and the silvery mist of the meadows. 
Silently, one by one, in the infinite meadows of heaven. 
Blossomed the lovely stars, the forget-me-nots of the angels. 



Thus passed the evening away. Anon the bell from the belfry 
Rang out the hour of nine, the village curfew, and straightway 
Rose the guests and departed ; and silence reigned in the household. 



EVANGELINE. 



25 



Many a farewell word and sweet good-night on the doorstep 
Lingered long in Evangeline's heart, and filled it with gladness. 




Carefully then were covered the embers that glowed on the hearth-stone. 
And on the oaken stairs resounded the tread of the farmer. 
Soon with a soundless step the foot of Evangeline followed. 
Up the staircase moved a luminous space in the darkness, 



26 EVANGELINE. 

Lighted less by the lamp than the shining face of the maiden. 
Silent she passed through the hall, and entered the door of her chamber. 
Simple that chamber was, with its curtains of white and its clothes-press 
Ample and high, on whose spacious shelves were carefully folded 
Linen and woollen stuffs, by the hand of Evangeline woven. 
This was the precious dower she would bring to her husband in 

marriage, 
Better than nocks and herds, being proofs of her skill as a housewife. 
Soon she extinguished her lamp, for the mellow and radiant moonlight 
Streamed through the windows, and lighted the room, till the heart 

of the maiden 
Swelled and obeyed its power, like the tremulous tides of the ocean. 
Ah ! she was fair, exceeding fair to behold, as she stood with 
Naked snow-white feet on the gleaming floor of her chamber ! 
Little she dreamed that below, among the trees of the orchard, 
"Waited her lover, and watched for the gleam of her lamp and her 

shadow. 
Yet were her thoughts of him, and at times a feeling of sadness 
Passed o'er her soul, as the sailing shade of clouds in the moonlight 
Flitted across the floor and darkened the room for a moment. 
And as she gazed from the window she saw serenely the moon pass 
Forth from the folds of a cloud, and one star follow her footsteps, 
As out of Abraham's tent young Ishmael wandered with Hagar ! 



EVANGELINE. 




IV. 



Pleasantly rose next morn the sun on the village of Grand Pre. 
Pleasantly gleamed in the soft, sweet air the Basin of Minas, 
Where the ships, with their wavering shadows, were riding at anchor. 
Life had long been astir in the village, and clamorous labour 



28 



EVANGELINE. 



Knocked with its hundred hands at the golden gates of the morning. 
Now from the country around, from the farms and the neighbouring 

hamlets, 
Came in their holiday dresses the blithe Acadian peasants. 
Many a glad good morrow and jocund laugh from the young folk 
Made the bright air brighter, as up from the numerous meadows, 




Where no path could be seen but the track of wheels in the 

greensward, 
Group after group appeared, and joined, or passed on the highway. 
Long ere noon, in the village all sounds of labour were silenced. 



EVANGELINE. 29 

Thronged were the streets with people; and noisy groups at the 

house-doors 
Sat in the cheerful sun, and rejoiced and gossipped together. 
Every house was an inn, where all were welcomed and feasted ; 
For with this simple people, who lived like brothers together, 
All things were held in common, and what one had was another's. 
Yet under Benedict's roof hospitality seemed more abundant : 
For Evangeline stood among the guests of her father ; 
Bright was her face with smiles, and words of welcome and 

gladness 
Fell from her beautiful lips, and blessed the cup as she gave it. 

Under the open sky, in the odorous air of the orchard, 
Bending with golden fruit, was spread the feast of betrothal. 
There in the shade of the porch were the priest and the notary 

seated ; 
There good Benedict sat, and sturdy Basil the blacksmith. 
Not far withdrawn from these, by the cider-press and the beehives, 
Michael the fiddler was placed, with the gayest of hearts and of 

waistcoats. 
Shadow and light from the leaves alternately played on his 

snow-white 
Hair, as it waved in the wind ; and the jolly face of the fiddler 
Glowed like a living coal when the ashes are blown from the embers. 
Gaily the old man sang to the vibrant sound of his fiddle, 
Tons les Bourgeois de Chartres, and Le Carillon de Dunkerqne, 
And anon with his wooden shoes beat time to the music. 



30 



EVANGELINE. 




Merrily, merrily whirled the wheels of the dizzying dances 
Under the orchard-trees and down the path to the meadows ; 
Old folk and young together, and children mingled among them. 
Fairest of all the maids was Evangeline, Benedict's daughter! 
Noblest of all the youths was Gabriel, son of the blacksmith ! 



So passed the morning away. And lo, with a summons sonorous 
Sounded the bell from its tower, and over the meadows a drum beat. 
Thronged ere long was the church with men. Without, in the 
church -yard, 



EVANGELINE. 



31 



Waited the women. They stood by the graves, and hung on the 

head -stones 
Garlands of autumn leaves and evergreens fresh from the forest. 




Then came the guard from the ships, and, marching proudly among 

them, 
Entered the sacred portal. With loud and dissonant clangour 
Echoed the sound of their brazen drums from ceiling and casement,— 
Echoed a moment only, and slowly the ponderous portal 
Closed, and in silence the crowd awaited the will of the soldiers. 
Then uprose their commander, and spake from the steps of the altar. 
Holding aloft in his hands, with its seals, the royal commission. 
" You are convened this day," he said, "by His Majesty's orders, 



32 EVANGELINE. 

Clement and kind has he been; but how you have answered his 

kindness 
Let your own hearts reply ! To my natural make and my temper 
Painful the task is I do, which to you I know must be grievous. 
Yet must I bow and obey, and deliver the will of our monarch ; 
Namely, that all your lands, and dwellings, and cattle of all kinds 
Forfeited be to the crown ; and that you yourselves from this province 
Be transported to other lands. God grant you may dwell there 
Ever as faithful subjects, a happy and peaceable people ! 
Prisoners now I declare you ; for such is His Majesty's pleasure ! " 
As, when the air is serene in the sultry solstice of summer, 
Suddenly gathers a storm, and the deadly sling of the hailstones 
Beats down the farmer's corn in the field and shatters his windows, 
Hiding the sun and strewing the ground with thatch from the 

house-roofs', 
Bellowing fly the herds, and seek to break their enclosures; 
So on the hearts of the people descended the words of the speaker. 
Silent a moment they stood in speechless wonder, and then rose 
Louder and ever louder a wail of sorrow and anger, 
And, by one impulse moved, they madly rushed to the door-way. 
Vain was the hope of escape ; and cries and fierce imprecations ' 
Rang through the house of prayer ; and high o'er the heads of the others 
Hose, with his arms uplifted, the figure of Basil the blacksmith, 
As on a stormy sea a spar is tossed by the billows. 
Flushed was his face and distorted with passion ; and wildly he shouted 
"Down with the tyrants of England! we never have sworn them 

allegiance ! 



EVANGELINE. 33 

Death to these foreign soldiers, who seize on our homes and our 

harvests ! " 
More he fain would have said, but the merciless hand of a soldier 
Smote him upon the mouth, and dragged him down to the pavement. 

In the midst of the strife and tumult of angry contention, 
Lo ! the door of the chancel opened, and Father Felician 
Entered, with serious mien, and ascended the steps of the altar. 
Raising his reverend hand, with a gesture he awed into silence 
All that clamorous throng ; and thus he spake to his people ; 
Deep were his tones and solemn ; in accents measured and mournful 
Spake he, as, after the tocsin's alarum, distinctly the clock strikes. 
"What is this that ye do, my children? what madness has 

seized you ? 
Forty years of my life have I laboured among you, and taught you, 
Not in word alone, but in deed, to love one another ! 
Is this the fruit of my toils, of my vigils and prayers and privations ? 
Have you so soon forgotten all lessons of love and forgiveness ? 
This is the house of the Prince of Peace, and would you profane it 
Thus with violent deeds and hearts overflowing with hatred ? 
Lo ! where the crucified Christ from his cross is gazing upon you ! 
See ! in those sorrowful eyes what meekness and holy compassion ! 
Hark ! how those lips still repeat the prayer — ' O Father forgive 

them ! ' 
Let us repeat that prayer in the hour when the wicked assail us, 
Let us repeat it now, and say, ' Father, forgive them ! ' " 
Few were his words of rebuke, but deep in the hearts of his people 

F 



34 EVANGELINE. 

Sank they, and sobs of contrition succeeded that passionate outbreak ; 
And they repeated his prayer, and said, " Father, forgive them!" 

Then came the evening service. The tapers gleamed from 

the altar. 
Fervent and deep was the voice of the priest, and the people 

responded, 
Not with their lips alone, but their hearts ; and the Ave Maria 
Sang they, and fell on their knees, and their souls, with devotion 

translated, 
Rose on the ardour of prayer, like Elijah ascending to heaven. 

Meanwhile had spread in the village the tidings of ill, and on 

all sides 
Wandered, wailing, from house to house, the women and children. 
Long at her father's door Evangeline stood, with her right hand 
Shielding her eyes from the level rays of the sun, that, descending, 
Lighted the village street with mysterious splendour, and roofed each 
Peasant's cottage with golden thatch, and emblazoned its windows. 
Long within had been spread the snow-white cloth on the table; 
There stood the wheaten loaf, and the honey, fragrant with wild 

flowers ; 
There stood the tankard of ale, and the cheese fresh brought from 

the dairy ; 
And at the head of the board the great arm-chair of the farmer. 
Thus did Evangeline wait at her father's door, as the sunset 
Threw the long shadows of trees o'er the broad ambrosial meadows. 



EVANGELINE. 



35 



Ah ! on her spirit within a deeper shadow had fallen, 

And from the fields of her sonl a fragrance celestial ascended,— 

Charity, meekness, love, and hope, and forgiveness, and patience! 




Then, all forgetful of self, she wandered into the village, 

Cheering with looks and words the disconsolate hearts of the women, 

As o'er the darkening fields with lingering steps they departed, 



36 EVANGELINE. 



Urged by their household cares, and the weary feet of their children 
Down sank the great red sun, and in golden, glimmering vapours 
Veiled the light of his face, like the Prophet descending from Sinai. 
Sweetly over the village the bell of the Angelus sounded. 

Meanwhile, amid the gloom, by the church Evangeline lingered. 
All was silent within ; and in vain at the door and the windows 
Stood she, and listened and looked, until, overcome by emotion, 
" Gabriel," cried she, aloud, with tremulous voice; but no answer 
Came from the graves of the dead, nor the gloomier grave of the living. 
Slowly at length she returned to the tenantless house of her father. 
Smouldered the fire on the hearth, on the board stood the supper 

un tasted, 
Empty and drear was each room, and haunted with phantoms of terror. 
Sadly echoed her step on the stair and the floor of her chamber. 
In the dead of the night she heard the whispering rain fall 
Loud on the withered leaves of the sycamore tree by the window. 
Keenly the lightning flashed ; and the voice of the echoing thunder 
Told her that God was in heaven, and governed the world he created ! 
Then she remembered the tale she had heard of the justice of heaven ; 
Soothed was her troubled soul, and she peacefully slumbered till morning. 



EVANGELINE. 



oT 




V. 



Four times the sun had risen and set ; and now on the fifth day 
Cheerily called the cock to the sleeping maids of the farm-house. 
Soon o'er the yellow fields, in silent and mournful procession, 
Came from the neighbouring hamlets and farms the Acadian women, 
Driving in ponderous wains their household goods to the sea-shore, 



38 EVANGELINE. 

Pausing and looking back to gaze once more on their dwellings, 
Ere they were shut from sight by the winding road and the woodland. 
Close at their sides their children ran, and urged on the oxen, 
While in their little hands they clasped some fragments of playthings. 

Thus to the Gaspereau's mouth they hurried ; and there on the 
sea-beach, 
Piled in confusion lay the household goods of the peasants. 
All day long between the shore and the ships did the boats ply ; 
All day long the wains came labouring down from the village. 
Late in the afternoon, when the sun was near to his setting, 
Echoing far o'er the fields came the roll of drums from the churchyard. 
Thither the women and children thronged. On a sudden the church-doors 
Opened, and forth came the guard, and marching in gloomy procession 
Followed the long-imprisoned, but patient, Acadian farmers. 
Even as pilgrims, who journey afar from their homes and their country, 
Sing as they go, and in singing forget they are weary and way-worn, 
So with songs on their lips the Acadian peasants descended 
Down from the church to the shore, amid their wives and their daughters. 
Foremost the young men came ; and, raising together their voices, 
Sang they with tremulous lips a chant of the Catholic Missions : — 
" Sacred heart of the Saviour ! inexhaustible fountain ! 
Fill our hearts this day with strength and submission and patience ! " 
Then the old men, as they marched, and the women that stood by the 

wayside, 
Joined in the sacred psalm, and the birds in the sunshine above them 
Mingled their notes therewith, like voices of spirits departed. 



EVANGELINE. 39 

Half-way down to the shore Evangeline waited in silence, 
Not overcome with grief, but strong in the hour of affliction,— 
Calmly and sadly waited, until the procession approached her, 
And she beheld the face of Gabriel pale with emotion. 
Tears then filled her eyes, and, eagerly running to meet him, 
Clasped she his hands, and laid her head on his shoulder, and whispered,— 
" Gabriel ! be of good cheer ; for if we love one another, 
Nothing, in truth, can harm us, whatever mischances may happen ! " 
Smiling she spake these words ; then suddenly paused, for her father 
Saw she slowly advancing. Alas ! how changed was his aspect! 
Gone was the glow from his cheek, and the fire from his eye, and his 

footstep 
Heavier seemed with the weight of the weary heart in his bosom. 
But, with a smile and a sigh, she clasped his neck and embraced him, 
Speaking words of endearment where words of comfort availed not. 
Thus to the Gaspereau's mouth moved on that mournful procession. 

There disorder prevailed, and the tumult and stir of embarking. 
Busily plied the freighted boats ; and in the confusion 
Wives were torn from their husbands, and mothers, too late, saw their 

children 
Left on the land, extending their arms, with wildest entreaties. 
So unto separate ships were Basil and Gabriel carried, 
While in despair on the shore Evangeline stood with her father. 
Half the task was not done when the sun went down, and the 

twilight 
Deepened and darkened around ; and in haste the refluent ocean 



10 



EVANGELINE 



Fled away from the shore, and left the line of the sand-beach 
Covered with waifs of the tide, with kelp and the slippery sea-weed. 
Farther back, in the midst of the household goods and the wagons, 
Like to a gipsy camp, or a leagner after a battle, 
All escape cut off by the sea, and the sentinels near them, 
Lay encamped for the night the houseless Acadian farmers. 
Back to its nethermost caves retreated the bellowing ocean, 
Dragging adown the beach the rattling pebbles, and leaving 
Inland and far up the shore the stranded boats of the sailors. 




Then, as the night descended, the herds returned from their pastures ; 
Sweet was the moist still air with the odour of milk from their udders ; 
Lowing they waited, and long, at the well-known bars of the 

farmyard, — 
Waited and looked in vain for the voice and the hand of the 

milkmaid. 



EVANGELINE. 41 

Silence reigned in the streets ; from the church no Angelus sounded. 
Rose no smoke from the roofs, and gleamed no lights from the 
windows. 

But on the shores meanwhile the evening fires had been kindled, 
Built of the drift-wood thrown on the sands from wrecks in the 

tempest. 
Round them shapes of gloom and sorrowful faces were gathered, 
Voices of women were heard, and of men, and the crying of children. 
Onward from fire to fire, as from hearth to hearth in his parish, 
Wandered the faithful priest, consoling and blessing and cheering, 
Like unto shipwrecked Paul on Melita's desolate sea-shore. 
Thus he approached the place where Evangeline sat with her father, 
And in the flickering light beheld the face of the old man, 
Haggard and hollow and wan, and without either thought or 

emotion , 
E'en as the face of a clock from which the hands have been taken. 
Vainly Evangeline strove with words and caresses to cheer him, 
Vainly offered him food ; yet he moved not, he looked not, he 

spake not, 
But, with a vacant stare, ever gazed at the flickering fire light. 
" Benedicite /" murmured the priest, in tones of compassion. 
More he fain would have said, but his heart was full, and his accents 
Faltered and paused on his lips, as the feet of a child on a 

threshold, 
Hushed by the scene he beholds, and the awful presence of sorrow. 
Silently, therefore, he laid his hand on the head of the maiden, 

G 



42 



EVANGELINE. 



Raising his eyes, full of tears, to the silent stars that above them 
Moved on their way, unperturbed by the wrongs and sorrows of 

mortals. 
Then sat he down at her side, and they wept together in silence. 




Suddenly rose from the south a light, as in autumn the blood -red 
Moon climbs the crystal walls of heaven, and o'er the horizon 
Titan-like stretches its hundred hands upon mountain and meadow, 
Seizing the rocks and the rivers, and piling huge shadows together. 
Broader and ever broader it gleamed on the roofs of the village, 



EVANGELINE. 43 

Gleamed on the sky and the sea, and the ships that lay in the road- 
stead. 

Columns of shining smoke uprose, and flashes of flame were 

Thrust through their folds and withdrawn, like the quivering hands 
of a martyr. 

Then as the wind seized the gleeds and the burning thatch, and, 
uplifting, 

Whirled them aloft through the air, at once from a hundred 
house-tops 

Started the sheeted smoke with flashes of flame intermingled. 

These things beheld in dismay the crowd on the shore and on 
shipboard. 
Speechless at first they stood, then cried aloud in their anguish, 
"We shall behold no more our homes in the village of Grand Pre !" 
Loud on a sudden the cocks began to crow in the farm-yards, 
Thinking the day had dawned ; and anon the lowing of cattle 
Came on the evening breeze, by the barking of dogs interrupted. 
Then rose a sound of dread, such as startles the sleeping encampments 
Far in the western prairies or forests that skirt the Nebraska, 
When the wild horses affrighted sweep by with the speed of the 

whirlwind, 
Or the loud bellowing herds of buffaloes rush to the river. 
Such was the sound that arose on the night, as the herds and 

the horses 
Broke through their folds and fences, and madly rushed o er the 

meadows. 



44 EVANGELINE. 

Overwhelmed with the sight, yet speechless, the priest and the 
maiden 

Gazed on the scene of terror that reddened and widened before them ; 

And as they turned at length to speak to their silent companion, 

Lo! from his seat he had fallen, and stretched abroad on the 
sea-shore 

Motionless lay his form, from which the soul had departed. 

Slowly the priest uplifted the lifeless head, and the maiden 

Knelt at her father's side, and wailed aloud in her terror. 

Then in a swoon she sank, and lay with her head on his bosom. 

Through the long night she lay in deep, oblivious slumber : 

And when she awoke from the trance, she beheld a multitude 

near her. 
Faces of friends she beheld, that were mournfully gazing upon her, 

Pallid, with tearful eyes, and looks of saddest compassion. 
Still the blaze of the burning village illumined the landscape, 
Reddened the sky overhead, and gleamed on the faces around her, 
And like the day of doom it seemed to her wavering senses. 
Then a familiar voice she heard, as it said to the people, — 
" Let us bury him here by the sea. When a happier season 
Brings us again to our homes from the unknown land of our exile, 
Then shall his sacred dust be piously laid in the churchyard." 
Such were the words of the priest. And there in haste by the 

seaside, 
Having the glare of the burning village for funeral torches, 
But without bell or book, they buried the farmer of Grand Pre. 
And as the voice of the priest repeated the service of sorrow, 



EVANGELINE. 



45 



Lo ! with a mournful sound, like the voice of a vast congregation, 
Solemnly answered the sea, and mingled its roar with the dirges. 
'T was the returning tide, that afar from the waste of the ocean, 
With the first dawn of the day, came heaving and hurrying landward. 
Then recommenced once more the stir and noise of embarking ; 
And with the ebb of that tide the ships sailed out of the harbour, 
Leaving behind them the dead on the shore, and the village in ruins. 




< J-^ 




PART THE SECOND 



Many a weary year had passed since the burning of Grand Pre, 
When on the falling tide the freighted vessels departed, 
Bearing a nation, with all its household gods, into exile, 
Exile without an end, and without an example in story. 



48 EVANGELINE. 

Far asunder, on separate coasts, the Acadians landed ; 

Scattered were they, like flakes of snow, when the wind from the 

north-east 
Strikes aslant through the fogs that darken the banks of New- 
foundland. 
Friendless, homeless, hopeless, they wandered from city to city, 
From the cold lakes of the North to sultry Southern savannahs, — 
From the bleak shores of the sea to the land where the Father of 

Waters 
Seizes the hills in his hands, and drags them down to the ocean, 
Deep in their sands to bury the scattered bones of the mammoth. 
Friends they sought and homes ; and many, despairing, heart-broken , 
Asked of the earth but a grave, and no longer a friend nor a fireside. 
Written their history stands on tablets of stone in the churchyards. 
Long among them was seen a maiden who waited and wandered, 
Lowly and meek in spirit, and patiently suffering all things. 
Fair was she and young ; but, alas ! before her extended, 
Dreary and vast and silent, the desert of life, with its pathway 
Marked by the graves of those who had sorrowed and suffered before her, 
Passions long extinguished, and hopes long dead and abandoned, 
As the emigrant's way o'er the western desert is marked by 
Camp-fires long consumed, and bones that bleach in the sunshine. 
Something there was in her life incomplete, imperfect, unfinished ; 
As if a morning of June, with all its music and sunshine, 
Suddenly paused in the sky, and, fading, slowly descended 
Into the east again, from whence it late had arisen. 
Sometimes she lingered in towns, till, urged by the fever within her, 



EVANGELINE. 41) 

Urged by a restless longing, the hunger and thirst of the spirit, 
She would commence again her endless search and endeavour ; 
Sometimes in churchyards strayed, and gazed on the crosses and tomb- 
stones, 
Sat by some nameless grave, and thought that perhaps in its bosom 
He was already at rest, and she longed to slumber beside him. 
Sometimes a rumour, a hearsay, an inarticulate whisper, 
Came with its airy hand to point and beckon her forward. 
Sometimes she spake with those who had seen her beloved and known 

him, 
But it was long ago, in some far-off place or forgotten. 
" Gabriel Lajeunesse ! " said they ; " O, yes ! we have seen him. 
He was with Basil the blacksmith, and both have gone to the prairies ; 
Coureurs-des-Bois are they, and famous hunters and trappers." 
" Gabrielle Lajeunesse ! " said others; " O, yes ! we have seen him. 
He is a Voyageur in the lowlands of Louisiana." 
Then would they say, — " Dear child ! why dream and wait for him 

longer? 
Are there not other youths as fair as Gabriel ? others 
Who have hearts as tender and true, and spirits as loyal ? 
Here is Baptiste Leblanc, the notary's son, who has loved thee 
Many a tedious year ; come, give him thy hand and be happy ! 
Thou art too fair to be left to braid Saint Catherine's tresses." 
Then would Evangeline answer, serenely but sadly, — " I cannot ! 
Whither my heart has gone, there follows my hand, and not elsewhere. 
For when the heart goes before, like a lamp, and illumines the pathway 
Many things are made clear, that else lie hidden in darkness." 



50 EVANGELINE. 

And thereupon the priest, her friend and father-confessor, 

Said, with a smile, — " Oh, daughter ! thy God thus speaketh within 

thee! 
Talk not of wasted affection, affection never was wasted ; 
If it enrich not the heart of another, its waters, returning 
Back to their springs, like the rain, shall fill them full of refreshment; 
That which the fountain sends forth returns again to the fountain, 
Patience ; accomplish thy lahour ; accomplish thy work of affection ! 
Sorrow and silence are strong, and patient endurance is godlike. 
Therefore accomplish thy lahour of love, till the heart is made godlike, 
Purified, strengthened, perfected, and rendered more worthy of heaven !" 
Cheered hy the good man's words, Evangeline laboured and waited. 
Still in her heart she heard the funeral dirge of the ocean, 
But with its sound there was mingled a voice that whispered 

" Despair not ! " 
Thus did that poor soul wander in want and cheerless discomfort, 
Bleeding, barefooted, over the shards and thorns of existence. 
Let me essay, O Muse ! to follow the wanderer's footsteps ; — 
Not through each devious path, each changeful year of existence ; 
But as a traveller follows a streamlet's course through the valley : 
Far from its margin at times, and seeing the gleam of its water 
Here and there, in some open space, and at intervals only ; 
Then drawing nearer its banks, through sylvan glooms that conceal it, 
Though he behold it not, he can hear its continuous murmur ; 
Happy, at length, if he find the spot where it reaches an outlet. 



EVANGELINE. 




II. 



It was the month of May. Far down the Beautiful River, 

Past the Ohio shore, and past the mouth of the Wabash, 

Into the golden stream of the broad and swift Mississippi, 

Floated a cumbrous boat, that was rowed by Acadian boatmen. 

It was a band of exiles, a raft, as it were, from the shipwrecked 

Nation, scattered along the coast, now floating together, 

Bound by the bonds of a common belief and a common misfortune ; 

Men and women and children, who, guided by hope or by hearsay, 

Sought for their kith and their kin among the few-acred farmers 

On the Acadian coast, and the prairies of fair Opelousas. 

With them Evangeline went, and her guide, the Father Felician. 

Onward, o'er sunken sands, through a wilderness sombre with forests, 



52 



EVANGELINE. 




Day after day they glided adown the 

turbulent river ; 
Night after night, by their blazing 

fires, encamped on its borders. 
Now through rushing chutes, among 

green islands, where plumelike 
Cotton-trees nodded their shadowy 

crests, they swept with the current, 
Then emerged into broad lagoons, 

where silvery sand-bars 
Lay in the stream, and along the 
t wimpling waves of their margin, 
Shining with snow-white plumes, 

large flocks of pelicans waded. 
|pvv I^vel the landscape grew, and along 

the shores of the river, 
Shaded by china-trees, in the midst 

of luxuriant gardens, 
Stood the houses of planters, with 

negro cabins and dove-cots. 
They were approaching the region 

where reigns perpetual summer, 
Where through the golden coast, and 

groves of orange and citron, 
Sweeps with majestic curve the river 

away to the eastward. 
They, too, swerved from their course ; 
and, entering the Bayou of Plaquemine, 



EVANGELINE. 



Soon were lost in a maze of sluggish 

and devious waters, 
Which, like a network of steel, ex- 
tended in every direction. 
Over their heads the towering and 

tenebrous boughs of the cypress 
Met in a dusky arch, and trailing 

mosses in mid air 
Waved like banners that hang on 

the walls of ancient cathedrals. 
Deathlike the silence seemed, and 

unbroken, save by the herons 
Home to their roosts in the cedar- 
trees returning at sunset, 
Or by the owl as he greeted the moon 

with demoniac laughter. 
Lovely the moonlight was as it | 

glanced and gleamed on the water, * 
Gleamed on the columns of cypress 

and cedar sustaining the arches, K 
Down through whose broken vaults 

it fell as through chinks in a ruin. 
Dreamlike, andindistinct, and strange f 

were all things around them ; 
And o'er their spirits there came a 

feeling of wonder and sadness, — 
Strange forebodings of ill, unseen and 

that cannot be compassed. 







i'W 



54 EVANGELINE. 

As, at the tramp of a horse's hoof on the turf of the prairies, 
Far in advance are closed the leaves of the shrinking mimosa, 
So, at the hoof-beats of fate, with sad forebodings of evil, 
Shrinks and closes the heart, ere the stroke of doom has attained it. 
But Evangeline's heart was sustained by a vision, that faintly 
Floated before her eyes, and beckoned her on through the moonlight. 
It was the thought of her brain that assumed the shape of a phantom. 
Through those shadowy aisles had Gabriel wandered before her, 
And every stroke of the oar now brought him nearer and nearer. 

Then in his place at the prow of the boat, rose one of the oarsmen, 
And, as a signal sound, if others like them peradventure. 
Sailed on those gloomy and midnight streams, blew a blast on his 

bugle. 
Wild through the dark colonnades and corridors leafy the blast rang, 
Breaking the seal of silence, and giving tongues to the forest. 
Soundless above them the banners of moss just stirred to the music. 
Multitudinous echoes awoke and died in the distance, 
Over the watery floor, and beneath the reverberant branches ; 
But not a voice replied ; no answer came from the darkness ; 
And when the echoes had ceased, like a sense of pain was the silence. 
Then Evangeline slept; but the boatmen rowed through the 

midnight ; 
Silent at times, and then singing familiar Canadian boat-songs, 
Such as they sang of old on their own Acadian rivers. 
And through the night were heard the mysterious sounds of the desert, 
Far off, indistinct, as of wave or wind in the forest, 
Mixed with the whoop of the crane and the roar of the grim alligator. 



EVANGELINE. 



55 



Thus ere another noon they emerged from those shades ; and 
before them 
Lay, in the golden sun, the lakes of the Atchafalaya. 
Water-lilies in myriads rocked on the slight undulations 




Made by the passing oars, and, resplendent in beauty, the lotus 
Lifted her golden crown above the heads of the boatmen. 
Faint was the air with the odorous breath of magnolia 

blossoms, 
And with the heat of noon ; and numberless silvan islands, 



56 



EVANGELINE. 




• i *mg*!&p& 



Fragrant and thickly embowered with 

blossoming hedges of roses, 
Near to whose shores they glided 

along, invited to slumber. 
Soon by the fairest of these their 

weary oars were suspended. 
Under the boughs of Wachita willows 

that grew by the margin, 
Safely their boat was moored ; and 

scattered about on the greensward, 
Tired with their midnight toil, the 

weary travellers slumbered. 
Over them vast and high extended 

the cope of a cedar. 
Swinging from its great arms, the 

trumpet-flower and the grape-vine 
Hung their ladder of ropes aloft, like 

the ladder of Jacob, 
On whose pendulous stairs the angels 

ascending, descending, 
Were the swift humming-birds, that 

flitted from blossom to blossom. 
Such was the vision Evangeline saw 

as she slumbered beneath it. 
Filled was her heart with love, and 

the dawn of an opening heaven 
Lighted her soul in sleep with the 

glory of regions celestial. 



EVANGELINE. 

Nearer and ever nearer, among 
the numberless islands, 

Darted a light, swift boat, that sped 
away o'er the water, 

Urged on its course by the sinewy 
arms of hunters and trappers. 

Northward its prow was turned, to 
the land of the bison and beaver. 

At the helm sat a youth, with coun- 
tenance thoughtful and careworn. 

Dark and neglected locks oversha- 
dowed his brow, and a sadness 

Somewhat beyond his years on his 
face was legibly written. 

Gabriel was it, who, weary with 
waiting, unhappy and restless, 

Sought in the Western wilds oblivion 
of self and of sorrow. 

Swiftly they glided along, close under 
the lee of the island. 

But by the opposite bank, and be- 
hind a screen of palmettoes, 

So that they saw not the boat, where 
it lay concealed in the willows, 

And undisturbed by the dash of their 
oars, and unseen, were the sleepers ; 

Angel of God was there none to 
awaken the slumbering maiden. 



57 




■y*%^ 



,-*.." 



58 EVANGELINE. 

Swiftly they glided away, like the shade of a eloud on the prairie. 

After the sound of their oars on the tholes had died in the distance, 

As from a magic trance the sleepers awoke, and the maiden 

Said with a sigh to the friendly priest, — " O Father Felician ! 

Something says in my heart that near me Gabriel wanders. 

Is it a foolish dream, an idle and vague superstition ? 

Or has an angel passed, and revealed the truth to my spirit ?" 

Then, with a blush, she added, — " Alas for my credulous fancy ! 

Unto ears like thine such words as these have no meaning." 

But made answer the reverend man, and he smiled as he answered, — 

" Daughter, thy words are not idle ; nor are they to me without 

meaning. 
Feeling is deep and still ; and the word that floats on the surface 
Is as the tossing buoy, that betrays where the anchor is hidden. 
Therefore trust to thy heart, and to what the world calls illusions. 
Gabriel truly is near thee; for not far away to the southward, 
On the banks of the Teche, are the towns of St. Maur and St. Martin. 
There the long- wandering bride shall be given again to her bridegroom, 
There the long-absent pastor regain his flock and his sheepfold. 
Beautiful is the land, with its prairies and forests of fruit-trees ; 
Under the feet a garden of flowers, and the bluest of heavens 
Bending above, and resting its dome on the walls of the forest. 
They who dwell there have named it the Eden of Louisiana." 

And with these words of cheer they arose and continued their 
journey. 
Softly the evening came. The sun from the w r cstern horizon 
Like a magician extended his golden wand o'er the landscape ; 



EVANGELINE. 59 

Twinkling vapours arose ; and sky and water and forest 
Seemed all on fire at the touch, and melted and mingled together. 
Hanging between two skies, a cloud with edges of silver, 
Floated the boat, with its dripping oars, on the motionless water. 
Filled was Evangeline's heart with inexpressible sweetness. 
Touched by the magic spell, the sacred fountains of feeling 
Glowed with the light of love, as the skies and waters around her. 
Then from a neighbouring thicket the mocking-bird, wildest of singers, 
Swinging aloft on a willow spray that hung o'er the water, 
Shook from his little throat such floods of dilirious music, 
That the whole air, and the woods, and the waves, seemed silent to listen. 
Plaintive at first were the tones and sad ; then soaring to madness 
Seemed they to follow or guide the revel of frenzied Bacchantes. 
Single notes were then heard, in sorrowful, low lamentation ; 
Till, having gathered them all, he flung them abroad in derision. 
As when, after a storm, a gust of wind through the tree-tops 
Shakes down the rattling rain in a crystal shower on the branches. 
With such a prelude as this, and hearts that throbbed with emotion, 
Slowly they entered the Teche, where it flows through the green 

Opelousas, 
And through the amber air, above the crest of the woodland, 
Saw the column of smoke that arose from a neighbouring dwelling ;— 
Sounds of a horn they heard, and the distant lowing of cattle. 



EVANGELINE. 



dg&sm-m 




in. 



Near to the bank of the river, o'ershadowed by oaks, from 

whose branches 
Garlands of Spanish moss and of mystic mistletoe flaunted, 
Such as the Druids cut down with golden hatchets at Yule-tide, 
Stood, secluded and still, the house of the herdsman. A garden 
Girded it round about with a belt of luxuriant blossoms, 
Filling the air with fragrance. The house itself was of timbers 



EVANGELTNE. 61 

Hewn from the cypress-tree, and carefully fitted together. 
Large and low was the roof; and on slender columns supported, 
Rose-wreathed, vine- encircled, a broad and spacious veranda, 
Haunt of the humming-bird and the bee, extended around it. 
At each end of the house, amid the flowers of the garden, 
Stationed the dove-cotes were, as love's perpetual symbol, 
Scenes of endless wooing, and endless contentions of rivals. 
Silence reigned o'er the place. The line of shadow and sunshine 
Ran near the tops of the trees ; but the honse itself was in shadow, 
And from its chimney-top, ascending and slowly expanding 
Into the evening air, a thin blue column of smoke rose. 
In the rear of the house, from the garden-gate, ran a pathway 
Through the great groves of oak to the skirts of the limitless 

prairie, 
Into whose sea of flowers the sun was slowly descending. 
Full in his track of light, like ships with shadowy canvas 
Hanging loose from their spars in a motionless calm in the tropics, 
Stood a cluster of trees, with tangled cordage of grape-vines. 

Just where the woodlands met the flowery surf of the prairie, 
Mounted upon his horse, with Spanish saddle and stirrups, 
Sat a herdsman, arrayed in gaiters and doublet of deerskin. 
Broad and brown was the face that from under the Spanish 

sombrero 
Gazed on the peaceful scene, with the lordly look of its master. 
Round about him were numberless herds of kin e, that were grazing 
Quietly in the meadows, and breathing the vapoury freshness 



63 



EVANGELINE. 



That uprose from the river, and spread itself over the landscape. 
Slowly lifting the horn that hung at his side, and expanding 
Fully his broad, deep chest, he blew a blast, that resounded 
Wildly and sweet and far, through the still damp air of the 
evening, 




Suddenly out of the grass the long white horns of the cattle 
Rose like flakes of foam on the adverse currents of ocean . 
Silent a moment they gazed, then bellowing rushed o'er the prairie, 
And the whole mass became a cloud, a shade in the distance. 



EVANGELINE. 63 

Then, as the herdsman turned to the house, through the gate of the 

garden 
Saw he the forms of the priest and the maiden advancing to 

meet him. 
Suddenly down from his horse he sprang in amazement, and forward 
Rushed with extended arms and exclamations of wonder ; 
When they beheld his face, they recognised Basil the blacksmith. 
Hearty his welcome was, as he led his guests to the garden. 
There in an arbour of roses with endless question and answer 
Gave they vent to their hearts, and renewed their friendly 

embraces, 
Laughing and weeping by turns ; or sitting silent and thoughtful. 
Thoughtful, for Gabriel came not; and now dark doubts and 

misgivings 
Stole o'er the maiden's heart ; and Basil, somewhat embarrassed 
Broke the silence and said, — " If you came by the Atchafalaya, 
How have yon nowhere encountered my Gabriel's boat on 

the bayous?" 
Over Evangeline's face at the words of Basil a shade passed. 
Tears came into her eyes, and she said, with a tremulous accent, — 
"Gone? is Gabriel gone?" and, concealing her face on his 

shoulder, 
All her o'erburdened heart gave way, and she wept and lamented. 
Then the good Basil said, — and his voice grew blithe as he said it, — 
"Be of good cheer, my child ; it is only to-day he departed. 
Foolish boy ! he has left me alone with my herds and iny horses. 
Moody and restless grown, and tried and troubled, his spirit 



64 EVANGELINE. 

Could no longer endure the calm of this quiet existence. 
Thinking ever of thee, uncertain and sorrowful ever, 
Ever silent, or speaking only of thee and his troubles, 
He at length had become so tedious to men and to maidens, 
Tedious even to me, that at length I bethought me, and sent him 
Unto the town of Adayes to trade for mules with the Spaniards. 
Thence he will follow the Indian trails to the Ozark Mountains, 
Hunting for furs in the forests, on rivers trapping the beaver. 
Therefore be of good cheer ; we will follow the fugitive lover ; 
He is not far on his way, and the Fates and the streams are 

against him. 
Up and away to-morrow, and through the red dew of the 

morning 
We will follow him fast, and bring him back to his prison." 

Then glad voices were heard, and up from the banks of the 
river, 
Borne aloft on his comrades' arms, came Michael the fiddler. 
Long under Basil's roof had he lived like a god on Olympus, 
Having no other care than dispensing music to mortals. 
Far renowned was he for his silver locks and his fiddle. 
" Long live Michael," they cried, " our brave Acadian minstrel ! " 
As they bore him aloft in triumphal procession ; and straightway 
Father Felician advanced with Evangeline, greeting the old man 
Kindly and oft, and recalling the past, while Basil, enraptured, 
Hailed with hilarious joy his old companions and gossips, 
Laughing loud and long, and embracing mothers and daughters. 



EVANGELINE. 



6") 




Much they marvelled to see the wealth of the ci-devant 

blacksmith, 
All his domains and his herds, and his patriarchal demeanour ; 
Much they marvelled to hear his tales of the soil arid the climate, 
And of the prairies, whose numberless herds were his who would 

take them ; 
Each one thought in his heart, that he, too, would go and do likewise. 
Thus they ascended the steps, and, crossing the airy veranda, 

J 



6(3 EVANGELINE. 

Entered the hall of the house, where already the supper of Basil 
Waited his late return ; and they rested and feasted together. 

Over the joyous feast the sudden darkness descended. 
All was silent without, and, illuming the landscape with silver, 
Fair rose the dewy moon and the myriad stars ; but within doors, 
Brighter than these, shone the faces of friends in the glimmering 

lamp-light. 
Then from his station aloft, at the head of the table, the herdsman 
Poured forth his heart and his wine together in endless profusion. 
Lighting his pipe, that was filled with sweet Natchitoches tobacco, 
Thus he spake to his guests, who listened, and smiled as they listened : — 
" Welcome once more, my friends, who so long have been friendless 

and homeless, 
Welcome once more to a home, that is better perchance than the 

old one ! 
Here no hungry winter congeals our blood like the rivers ; 
Here no stony ground provokes the wrath of the farmer. 
Smoothly the ploughshare runs through the soil, as a keel through 

the water. 
All the year round the orange-groves are in blossom ; and grass 

grows 
More in a single night than a whole Canadian summer. 
Here, too, numberless herds run wild and unclaimed in the prairies ; 
Here, too, lands may be had for the asking, and forests of timber 
With a few blows of the axe are hewn and framed into houses. 
After your houses are built, and your fields are yellow with harvests, 



EVANGELINE. 67 

No King George of England shall drive you away from your 

homesteads, 
Burning your dwellings and barns, and stealing your farms and your 

cattle." 
Speaking these words, he blew a wrathful cloud from his nostrils, 
And his huge, brawny hand came thundering down on the table, 
So that the guests all started ; and Father Felician astounded, 
Suddenly paused, with a pinch of snuff half-way to his nostrils. 
But the brave Basil resumed, and his words were milder and gayer : 
" Only beware of the fever, my friends, beware of the fever ! 
For it is not like that of our cold Acadian climate, 
Cured by wearing a spider hung round one's neck in a nutshell ! " 
Then there were voices heard at the door, and footsteps approaching 
Sounded upon the stairs and the floor of the breezy veranda. 
It was the neighbouring Creoles and small Acadian planters, 
Who had been summoned all to the house of Basil the Herdsman, 
Merry the meeting was of ancient comrades and neighbours : 
Friend clasped friend in his arms ; and they who before were as 

strangers, 
Meeting in exile, became straightway as Mends to each other, 
Drawn by the gentle bond of a common country together. 
But in the neighbouring hall a strain of music, proceeding 
From the accordant strings of Michael's melodious fiddle, 
Broke up all further speech. Away, like children delighted, 
All tilings forgotten beside, they gave themselves to the maddening 
Whirl of the dizzy dance, as it swept and swayed to the music, 
Dreamlike, with beaming eyes and the rush of fluttering garments. 



(i8 EVANGELINE. 

Meanwldle, apart, at the head of the hall, the priest and the 
herdsman 
Sat, conversing together of past and present and future ; 
While Evangeline stood like one entranced, for within her 
Olden memories rose, and loud in the midst of the music 
Heard she the sound of the sea, and an irrepressible sadness 
Came o'er her heart, and unseen she stole forth into the garden. 
Beautiful was the night. Behind the black wall of the forest, 
Tipping its summit with silver, arose the moon. On the river 
Fell here and there through the branches a tremulous gleam of the 

moonlight, 
Like the sweet thoughts of love on a darkened and devious spirit. 
Nearer and round about her, the manifold flowers of the garden 
Poured out their souls in odours, that were their prayers and 

confessions 
Unto the night, as it went its way, like a silent Carthusian.. 
Fuller of fragrance than they, and as heavy with shadows and night- 
dews, 
Hung the heart of the maiden. The calm and the magical moonlight 
Seemed to inundate her soul with indefinable longings, 
As, through the garden gate, beneath the brown shade of the oak trees, 
Passed she along the path to the edge of the measureless prairie. 
Silent it lay, with a silvery haze upon it, and fire-flies 
Gleaming and floating away in mingled and infinite numbers. 
Over her head the stars, the thoughts of God in the heavens, 
Shone on the eyes of man, who had ceased to marvel and worship, 
Save when a blazing comet was seen on the walls of that temple, 



EVANGELINE. 69 

As if a hand had appeared and written upon them, " Upharsin." 
And the soul of the maiden, between the stars and the fire-flies, 
Wandered alone, and she cried, — " O Gabriel! O my beloved! 
Art thou so near unto me, and yet I cannot behold thee ? 
Art thou so near unto me, and yet thy voice does not reach me ? 
Ah ! how often thy feet have trod this path to the prairie ! 
Ah ! how often thine eyes have looked on the woodlands around me ! 
Ah ! how often beneath this oak, returning* from labour, 
Thou hast lain down to rest, and to dream of me in thy slumbers. 
When shall these eyes behold, these arms be folded about thee ? " 
Loud, and sudden, and near, the note of a whip-poorwill sounded 
Like a flute in the woods; and anon, through the neighbouring- 
thickets, 
Farther and farther away it floated and dropped into silence. 
" Patience ! " whispered the oaks from oracular caverns of darkness ; 
And, from the moonlit meadow, a sigh responded, " To-morrow! " 

Bright rose the sun next-day; and all the flowers of the garden 
Bathed his shining feet with their tears, and anointed his tresses 
With the delicious balm that they bore in their vases of crystal. 
" Farewell! " said the priest, as he stood at the shadowy threshold; 
"See that you bring us the Prodigal Son from his fasting and 

famine, 
And, too, the Foolish Virgin, who slept when the bridegroom was 

coming." 
" Farewell ! " answered the maiden, and, smiling, with Basil descended 
Down to the river's brink, where the boatmen already were waiting. 



70 



EVANGELINE. 



Thus beginning their journey with morning, and sunshine, and 

gladness, 
Swiftly they followed the flight of him who was sx3eeding before them, 
Blown by the blast of fate like a dead leaf over the desert. 
Not that day, nor the next, nor yet the day that succeeded, 
Found they trace of his course, in lake or forest or river, 
Nor, after many days, had they found him ; but vague and uncertain 
Rumours alone were their guides through a wild and desolate country ; 
Till, at the little inn of the Spanish town of Adayes, 
Weary and worn, they alighted, and learnt from the garrulous 

landlord, 
That on the day before, with horses and guides and companions, 
Gabriel left the village, and took the road of the prairies. 







\ 



EVANGELINE. 







Far in the West there lies a desert land, where the mountains 
Lift, through perpetual snows, their lofty and luminous summits. 
Down from their jagged, deep ravines, where the gorge, like a 

gateway, 
Opens a passage rude to the wheels of the emigrant's waggon, 
Westward the Oregon flows and the Walleway and Owyhee. 



72 EVANGELINE. 

Eastward, with devious course, among the Wind-river Mountains, 
Through the Sweet-water Valley precipitate leaps the Nebraska ; 
And to the south, from Fountaine-qui-bout and the Spanish sierras, 
Fretted with sands and rocks, and swept by the wind of the desert, 
Numberless torrents, with ceaseless sound, descend to the ocean. 
Like the great chords of a harp, in loud and solemn vibrations. 
Spreading between these streams are the Avondrous, beautiful prairies, 
Billowy bays of grass ever rolling in shadow and sunshine, 
Bright with luxuriant clusters of roses and purple amorphas. 
Over them wander the buffalo herds, and the elk, and the roebuck ; 
Over them wander the wolves, and herds of riderless horses ; 
Fires that blast and blight, and winds that are weary with travel ; 
Over them wander the scattered tribes of Ishmael's children, 
Staining the desert with blood; and above their terrible war-trails 
Circles and sails aloft, on pinions majestic, the vulture, 
Like the implacable soul of a chieftain slaughtered in battle, 
By invisible stairs ascending and scaling the heavens. 
Here and there rise smokes from the camps of these savage marauders ; 
Here and there rise groves from the margins of swift-running rivers ; 
And the grim, taciturn bear, the anchorite monk of the desert, 
Climbs down their dark ravines to dig for roots by the brook-side, . 
And over all is the sky, the clear and crystalline heaven, 
Like the protecting hand of God inverted above them. 

Into this wonderful land, at the base of the Ozark Mountains, 
Gabriel far had entered, with hunters and trappers behind him. 
Day after day, with their Indian guides, the maiden and Basil 






EVANGELINE. 73 

Followed his flying steps, and thought each day to o'ertake him. 
Sometimes they saw, or thought they saw, the smoke of his camp-fire 
Rise in the morning air from the distant plain ; but at nightfall, 
When they had reached the place, they found only embers and ashes. 
And, though their hearts were sad at times and their bodies were 

weary, 
Hope still guided them on, as the magic Fata Morgana 
Showed them her lakes of light, that retreated and vanished before 

them. 

Once, as they sat by their evening fire, there silently entered 
Into the little camp an Indian woman, whose features 
Wore deep traces of sorrow, and patience as great as her sorrow. 
She was a Shawnee woman returning home to her people, 
From the far-off hunting-grounds of the cruel Camanches, 
Where her Canadian husband, a Coureur-des-Bois, had been murdered. 
Touched were their hearts at her story, and warmest and friendliest 

welcome 
Gave they, with words of cheer, and she sat and feasted among them 
On the buffalo-meat and the venison cooked on the embers. 
But when their meal was done, and Basil and all his companions, 
Worn with the long day's march and the chase of the deer and the 

bison, 
Stretched themselves on the ground, and slept where the quivering 

fire-light 
Flashed on their swarthy checks, and their forms wrapt up in their 

blankets, 

K 



74 EVANGELINE. 

Then at the door of Evangeline's tent she sat and repeated 

Slowly, with soft, low voice, and the charm of her Indian accent, 

All the tale of her love, with its pleasures, and pains, and reverses. 

Mnch Evangeline wept at the tale, and to know that another 

Hapless heart like her own had loved and had been disappointed. 

Moved to the depths of her soul by pity and woman's compassion, 

Yet in her sorrow pleased that one who had suffered was near her, 

She in turn related her love and all its disasters. 

Mute with wonder the Shawnee sat, and when she had ended 

Still was mute ; but at length, as if a mysterious horror 

Passed through her brain, she spake, and repeated the tale of the 

Mowis ; 
Mo wis, the bridegroom of snow, who won and wedded a maiden, 
But, when the morning came, arose and passed from the wigwam, 
Fading and melting away and dissolving into the sunshine, 
Till she beheld him no more, though she followed far into the foregt. 
Then, in those sweet, low tones, that seemed like a weird incantation, 
Told she the tale of the fair Lilinau, who was wooed by a phantom, 
That, through the pines o'er her father's lodge, in the hush of the 

twilight, 
Breathed like the evening wind, and whispered love to the maiden, 
Till she followed his green and waving plume through the forest, 
And never more returned, nor was seen again by her people. 
Silent with wonder and strange surprise, Evangeline listened 
To the soft flow of her magical w r ords, till the region around her 
Seemed like enchanted ground, and her swarthy guest the enchantress. 
Slowly over the tops of the Ozark Mountains the moon rose, 



EVANGELTNE. 7o 

Lighting- the little tent, and with a mysterious splendour 
Touching the sombre leaves, and embracing and filling the woodland. 
With a delicious sound the brook rushed by, and the branches 
Swayed and sighed overhead in scarcely audible whispers. 
Filled with the thoughts of love was Evangeline's heart, but a secret, 
Subtile sense crept in of pain and indefinite terror, 
As the cold, poisonous snake creeps into the nest of the swallow. 
It was no earthly fear. A breath from the region of spirits 
Seemed to float in the air of night ; and she felt for a moment 
That, like the Indian maid, she, too, was pursuing a phantom. 
And with this thought she slept, and the fear and the phantom had 
vanished. 

Early upon the morrow the march was resumed ; and the Shawnee 
Said, as they journeyed along, — " On the western slope of these 

mountains 
Dwells in his little village the Black Robe chief of the Mission. 
Much he teaches the people, and tells them of Mary and Jesus ; 
Loud laugh their hearts with joy, and weep with pain, as they hear 

him." 
Then, with a sudden and secret emotion, Evangeline answered, — 
" Let us go to the Mission, for there good tidings await us ! " 
Thither they turned their steeds ; and behind a spur of the mountains, 
Just as the sun went down, they heard a murmur of voices, 
And in a meadow green and broad, by the bank of a river, 
Saw the tents of the Christians, the tents of the Jesuit Mission. 
Under a towering oak, that stood in the midst of the village, 



76 



EVANGELINE. 




Knelt the Black Robe chief with his children. A crucifix fastened 
High on the trunk of the tree, and overshadowed by grape-vines, 
Looked with its agonized face on the multitude kneeling beneath it. 
This was their rural chapel. Aloft, through the intricate arches 
Of its aerial roof, arose the chant of their vespers, 
Mingling 1 its notes with the soft susurrus and sighs of the branches. 



EVANGELINE. 77 

Silent, with heads uncovered, the travellers, nearer approaching, 
Knelt on the swarded floor, and joined in the evening devotions. 
But when the service was done, and the benediction had fallen 
Forth from the hands of the priest, like seed from the hands of the sower, 
Slowly the reverend man advanced to the strangers, and bade them 
Welcome ; and when they replied, he smiled with benignant expression, 
Hearing the homelike sounds of his mother-tongue in the forest, 
And with words of kindness conducted them into his wigwam. 
There upon mats and skins they reposed, and on cakes of the 

maize-ear 
Feasted, and slaked their thirst from the water-gourd of the teacher. 
Soon was their story told ; and the priest with solemnity answered : — 
" Not six suns have risen and set since Gabriel, seated 
On this mat by my side, where now the maiden reposes, 
Told me this same sad tale ; then arose and continued his journey ! " 
Soft was the voice of the priest, and he spake with an accent of 

kindness ; 
But on Evangeline's heart fell his words as in winter the 

snow-flakes 
Fall into some lone nest from which the birds have departed. 
" Far to the north he has gone," continued the priest ; " but in autumn 
When the chase is done, will return again to the Mission." 
Then Evangeline said, and her voice was meek and submissive, — 
" Let me remain with thee, for my soul is sad and afflicted." 
So seemed it wise and well unto all ; and betimes on the morrow, 
Mounting his Mexican steed, with his Indian guides and companions, 
Homeward Basil returned, and Evangeline stayed at the Mission. 



78 EVANGELINE. 

Slowly, slowly, slowly the days succeeded each other, — 
Days, and weeks, and months ; and the fields of maize that were 

springing 
Green from the ground when a stranger she came, now waving above 

her, 
Lifted their slender shafts, with leaves interlacing, and forming 
Cloisters for mendicant crows and granaries pillaged by squirrels. 
Then in the golden weather the maize was husked, and the maidens 
Blushed at each blood-red ear, for that betokened a lover, 
But at the crooked laughed, and called it a thief in the corn-field. 
Even the blood-red ear to Evangeline brought not her lover. 
" Patience !" the priest would say ; " have faith, and thy prayer will 

be answered ! 
Look at this delicate plant that lifts its head from the meadow, 
See how its leaves all point to the north, as true as the magnet : 
It is the compass- flower, that the finger of God hath suspended 
Here on its fragile stalk, to direct the traveller's journey 
Over the sea-like, pathless, limitless waste of the desert. 
Such in the soul of man is faith. The blossoms of passion, 
Gay and luxuriant flowers, are brighter and fuller of fragrance, 
But they beguile us, and lead us astray, and their odour is deadly. 
Only this humble plant can guide us here, and hereafter 
Crown us with asphodel flowers, that are wet with the dews of 

nepenthe." 

So came the autumn, and passed, and the winter, — yet Gabriel 
came not ; 



EVANGELINE. 79 

Blossomed the opening spring, and the notes of the robin and bine-bird 

Sounded sweet upon wold and in wood, yet Gabriel came not. 

But on the breath of the summer winds a rumour was wafted 

Sweeter than song of bird, or hue or odour of blossom. 

Far to the north and east, it said, in the Michigan forests, 

Gabriel had his lodge by the banks of the Saginaw river. 

And, with returning guides, that sought the lakes of St. Lawrence, 

Saying a sad farewell, Evangeline went from the Mission. 

When over weary ways, by long and perilous marches, 

She had attained at length the depths of the Michigan forests, 

Found she the hunter's lodge deserted and fallen to ruin ! 

Thus did the long sad years glide on, and in seasons and places 
Divers and distant far was seen the wandering maiden : — 
Now in the tents of grace of the meek Moravian Missions, 
Now in the noisy camps and the battle-fields of the army, 
Now in secluded hamlets, in towns and populous cities. 
Like a phantom she came, and passed away unremembered. 
Fail' was she and young, when in hope began the long journey ; 
Faded was she and old, when in disappointment it ended. 
Each succeeding year stole something away from her beauty, 
Leaving behind it, broader and deeper, the gloom and the shadow. 
Then there appeared and spread faint streaks of grey o'er her 

forehead, 
Dawn of another life, that broke o'er her earthly horizon^ 
As in the eastern sky the first faint streaks of the morning. 



80 



EVANGELINE. 




V. 



In that delightful land which is washed by the Delaware's waters, 
Guarding in sylvan shades the name of Penn the apostle, 
Stands on the banks of its beautiful stream the city he founded. 
There all the air is balm, and the peach is the emblem of beauty, 
And the streets still reecho the names of the trees of the forest, 
As if they fain would appease the Dryads whose haunts they molested. 
There from the troubled sea had Evangeline landed, an exile, 
Finding among the children of Penn a home and a country. 



EVANGELINE. 81 

There old Rene Leblanc had died ; and when he departed, 

Saw at his side only one of all his hundred descendants. 

Something- at least there was in the friendly streets of the city, 

Something that spake to her heart, and made her no longer a stranger, 

And her ear was pleased with the Thee and Thou of the Quakers, 

For it recalled the past, the old Acadian country, 

Where all men were equal, and all were brothers and sisters. 

So, when the fruitless search, the disappointed endeavour, 

Ended, to recommence no more upon earth, uncomplaining, 

Thither, as leaves to the light, were turned her thoughts and her 

footsteps. 
As from a mountain's top the rainy mists of the morning 
Roll away, and afar we behold the landscape below us, 
Sun-illumined, with shining rivers and cities and hamlets, 
So fell the mists from her mind, and she saw the world far below her, 
Dark no longer, but all illumined with love ; and the pathway 
Which she had climbed so far, lying smooth and fair in the distance. 
Gabriel was not forgotten. Within her heart was his image, 
Clothed in the beauty of love and youth, as last she beheld him, 
Only more beautiful made by his death-like silence and absence. 
Into her thoughts of him time entered not, for it was not. 
Over him years had no power; he was not changed, but transfigured ; 
He had become to her heart as one who is dead, and not absent; 
Patience and abnegation of self, and devotion to others, 
This was the lesson a life of trial and sorrow had taught her. 
So was her love diffused, but, like to some odorous spices, 
Suffered no waste nor loss, though filling the air with aroma. 

L 



82 



EVANGELINE. 



Other hope had she none, nor wish in life, but to follow 
Meekly, with reverent steps, the sacred feet of her Saviour. 
Thus many years she lived as a Sister of Mercy ; frequenting 
Lonely and wretched roofs in the crowded lanes of the city, 
Where distress and want concealed themselves from the sunlight, 
Where disease and sorrow in garrets languished neglected. 




Night after night, when the world was asleep, as the watchman 

repeated 
Loud, through the gusty streets, that all was well in the city, 
High at some lonely window he saw the light of her taper. 



EVANGELINE. 




Day after day, in the grey of the dawn, as slow through the suburbs 
Plodded the German farmer, with flowers and fruits for the market, 
Met he that meek, pale face, returning home from its watchings. 



Then it came to pass that a pestilence fell on the city, 
Presaged by wondrous signs, and mostly by flocks of wild pigeons, 



84 EVANGELINE. 

Darkening the sun in their flight, with naught in their craws but an 

acorn. 
And, as the tides of the sea arise in the month of September, 
Flooding some silver stream, till it spreads to a lake in the meadow, 
So death flooded life, and, o'erflowing its natural margin, 
Spread to a brackish lake the silver stream of existence. 
Wealth had no power to bribe, nor beauty to charm, the oppressor ; 
But all perished alike beneath the scourge of his anger; — 
Only, alas ! the poor, who had neither friends nor attendants, 
Crept away to die in the almshouse, home of the homeless. 
Then in the suburbs it stood, in the midst of meadows and wood- 
lands ; — 
Now the city surrounds it ; but still, with its gateway and wicket 
Meek, in the midst of splendour, its humble walls seem to echo 
Softly the words of the Lord : — " The poor ye always have with you." 
Thither, by night and by day, came the Sister of Mercy. The dying 
Looked up into her face, and thought, indeed, to behold there 
Gleams of celestial light encircle her forehead with splendour, 
Such as the artist paints o'er the brows of saints and apostles, 
Or such as hangs by night o'er a city seen at a distance, 
Unto their eyes it seemed the lamps of the city celestial, 
Into whose shining gates ere long their spirits would enter. 

Thus, on a Sabbath morn, through the streets, deserted and silent, 
Wending her quiet way, she entered the door of the almshouse. 
Sweet on the summer air was the odour of flowers in the garden; 
And she paused on her way to gather the fairest among them, 



EVANGELINE. 83 

That the dying once more might rejoice in their fragrance and beauty. 
Then, as she mounted the stairs to the corridors, cooled by the east wind, 
Distant and soft on her ear fell the chimes from the belfry of Christ 

Church, 
And, intermingled with these, across the meadows were wafted 
Sounds of psalms, that were sung by the Swedes in their church at 

AVicaco. 
Soft as descending wings fell the calm of the horn' on her spirit ; 
Something within her said, — " At length thy trials are ended;" 
And, with light in her looks, she entered the chambers of sickness. 
Noiselessly moved about the assiduous, careful attendants, 
Moistening the feverish lip, and the aching brow, and in silence 
Closing the sightless eyes of the dead, and concealing their faces, 
Where on the pallets they lay, like drifts of snow by the road-side. 
Many a languid head, upraised as Evangeline entered, 
Turned on its pillow of pain to gaze while she passed, for her presence 
Fell on their hearts like a ray of the sun on the walls of a prison. 
And, as she looked around, she saw how Death, the consoler, 
Laying his hand upon many a heart, had healed it for ever. 
Many familiar forms had disappeared in the night-time ; 
Vacant their places were, or filled already by strangers. 

Suddenly, as if arrested by fear or a feeling of wonder, 
Still she stood, with her colourless lips apart, while a shudder 
Ran through her frame, and, forgotten, the flowrets dropped from 

her fingers, 
And from her eyes and cheeks the light and bloom of the morning. 



86 EVANGELINE. 

Then there escaped from her lips a cry of such terrible anguish, 

That the dying heard it, and started up from their pillows. 

On the pallet before her was stretched the form of an old man. 

Long, and thin, and gray were the locks that shaded his temples; 

But, as he lay in the morning light, his face for a moment 

Seemed to assume once more the forms of its earlier manhood; 

So are wont to be changed the faces of those who are dying. 

Hot and red on his lips still burned the flush of the fever, 

As if life, like the Hebrew, with blood had besprinkled its portals, 

That the Angel of Death might see the sign, and pass over. 

Motionless, senseless, dying, he lay, and his spirit exhausted 

Seemed to be sinking down through infinite depths in the darkness, 

Darkness of slumber and death, for ever sinking and sinking. 

Then through those realms of shade, in multiplied reverberations, 

Heard he that cry of pain, and through the hush that succeeded 

Whispered a gentle voice, in accents tender and saint-like, 

" Gabriel ! my beloved !" and died away into silence. 

Then he beheld, in a dream, once more the home of his childhood ; 

Green Acadian meadows, with sylvan rivers among them, 

Village, and mountain, aud woodlands; and, walking under their 

shadow, 
As in the days of her youth, Evangeline rose in his vision. 
Tears came into his eyes ; and as slowly he lifted his eyelids, 
Vanished the vision away, but Evangeline knelt by his bedside. 
Vainly he strove to whisper her name, for the accents unuttered 
Died on his lips, and their motion revealed what his tongue would 

have spoken. 



EVANGELINE. 




Vainly he strove to rise ; and Evangeline, kneeling beside him, 

Kissed his dying lips, and laid his head on her bosom. 

Sweet was the light of his eyes; but it suddenly sank into darkness, 

As when a lamp is blown out by a gust of wind at a casement. 

All was ended now, the hope, and the fear, and the sorrow, 

All the aching of heart, the restless, unsatisfied longing, 

All the dull, deep pain, and constant anguish of patience! 

And, as she pressed once more the lifeless head to her bosom, 

Meekly she bowed her own, and murmured, " Father, I thank thee ! " 



EVANGELINE. 




Still stands the forest primeval ; but far away from its shadow, 
Side by side, in their nameless graves, the lovers are sleeping-. 
Under the humble walls of the little Catholic churchyard, 
In the heart of the city, they lie, unknown and unnoticed. 
Daily the tides of life go ebbing and flowing beside them, 
Thousands of throbbing hearts, where theirs are at rest and 

for ever, 
Thousands of aching brains, where theirs no longer are busy, 
Thousands of toiling hands, where theirs have ceased from their 

labours, 
Thousands of weary feet, where theirs have completed their 

journey ! 



EVANGELINE. 



89 



Still stands the forest primeval; but under the shade of its branches 
Dwells another race, with other customs and language. 
Only along the shore of the mournful and misty Atlantic 
Linger a few Acadian peasants, whose fathers from exile 
Wandered back to their native land to die in its bosom. 
In the fisherman's cot the wheel and the loom are still busy ; 
Maidens still wear their Norman caps and their kirtles of homespun, 
And by the evening fire repeat Evangeline's story, 
While from its rocky caverns the deep-voiced, neighbouring ocean 
Speaks, and in accents disconsolate answers the wail of the forest. 




IVIZf.'SLUfS' 



VOICES OF THE NIGHT 



HoTVia, TroTvia vv'i,^ 

v-n-vodorsipa twp 'koXvkovojv fiporiov, 

'EjOf^d^fv t-9v fioXe juoXe Karcnrrepo^ 

'AyafiefJivoviov etI do/jov' 

v7ro yap akyiijjv, xnzo re ffuju^opctt,' 

d 101^6 fie^ y oi-^ofjie^a. 

EURIPIDES. 




w 

I' 



Pleasant it was, when woods were green, 
And winds were soft and low, 

To lie amid some sylvan scene, 

Where, the long drooping boughs between, 

Shadows dark and sunlight sheen 
Alternate come and go ; 



Or where the denser grove receives 

No sunlight from above, 
But the dark foliage interweaves 



94 VOICES OF THE NIGHT. 

In one unbroken roof of leaves, 
Underneath whose sloping eaves 
The shadows hardly move. 

Beneath some patriarchal tree 

I lay upon the ground ; 
His hoary arms uplifted he, 
And all the broad leaves over me 
Clapped their little hands in glee, 

With one continuous sound ; — 

A slumberous sound, — a sound that brings 

The feelings of a dream, — 
As of innumerable wings, 
As, when a bell no longer swings, 
Faint the hollow murmur rings 

O'er meadow, lake, and stream. 

And dreams of that which cannot die, 

Bright visions, came to me, 
As lapped in thought I used to lie, 
And gaze into the summer sky, 
Where the sailing clouds went by, 
Like ships upon the sea ; 

Dreams that the soul of youth engage 

Ere Fancy has been quelled ; 
Old legends of the monkish page, 
Traditions of the saint and sage, 
Tales that have the rime of age, 
And chronicles of Eld. 



PRELUDE. 95 

And, loving still these quaint old themes, 

Even in the city's throng 
I feel the freshness of the streams, 
That, crossed by shades and sunny gleams, 
Water the green land of dreams, 

The holy land of song. 

Therefore, at Pentecost, which brings 
The Spring, clothed like a bride, 

When nestling buds unfold their wings, 

And bishop's-caps have golden rings, 

Musing upon many things, 

I sought the woodlands wide. 

The green trees whispered low and mild ; 

It was a sound of joy ! 
They were my playmates when a child, 
And rocked me in their arms so wild ! 
Still they looked at me and smiled, 

As if I were a boy ; 

And ever whispered, mild and low, 
" Come be a child once more !" 

And waved their long arms to and fro, 

And beckoned solemnly and slow ; 

O, I could not choose but go 
Into the woodlands hoar ; 

Into the blithe and breathing air, 

Into the solemn wood, 
Solemn and silent everywhere ! 



I 



% VOICES OF THE NIGHT. 

Nature with folded hands seemed there, 
Kneeling at her evening prayer ! 
Like one in prayer I stood. 

Before me rose an avenue 

Of tall and sombrous pines ; 

Abroad their fan-like branches grew, 

And, where the sunshine darted through. 

Spread a vapour soft and blue, 
In long and sloping lines. 

And, falling on my weary brain, 
Like a fast-falling shower, 

The dreams of youth came back again ; 

Low lispings of the summer rain, 

Dropping on the ripened grain, 
As once upon the flow 7 er. 

Visions of childhood ! Stay, stay ! 

Ye were so sweet and wild ! 
And distant voices seemed to say, 
' ; It cannot be ! They pass away ! 
Other themes demand thy lay ; 

Thou art no more a child ! 

" The land of Song within thee lies, 

Watered by living spr 
The lids of Fancy's sleepless ey 
Are gates unto that Paradise, 
Holy thoughts, like stars, arise, 

Its clouds are angels' wings. 






ring's ; 
res 



PltELUDE. 91 

"Learn, that henceforth thy song shall be. 
Not mountains capped with snow, 

Nor forests sounding like the sea, 

Nor rivers flowing ceaselessly, 

Where the woodlands bend to see 
The bending heavens below. 

" There is a forest where the din 

Of iron branches sounds ! 
A mighty river roars between, 
And whosoever looks therein, 
Sees the heavens all black with sin, — 

Sees not its depths, nor bounds. 

" Athwart the swinging branches cast, 

Soft rays of sunshine pour ; 
Then comes the fearful wintry blast ; 
Our hopes, like withered leaves, fall fast ; 
Pallid lips say, ' It is past ! 

"VVe can return no more ! ' 

" Look, then, into thine heart, and write ! 

Yes, into Life's deep stream ! 
All forms of sorrow and delight, 
All solemn Voices of the Night, 
That can soothe thee, or affright, — 

Be these henceforth thy theme." 




HYMN TO THE NIGHT. 

'AarTraairj, -piXXiarog. 

I heard the trailing- garments of the Night 
Sweep through her marble halls ! 

I saw her sable skirts all fringed with light 
From the celestial walls ! 



HYMN TO THE NIGHT. 99 

I felt her presence, by its spell of might, 

Stoop o'er me from above ; 
The calm, majestic presence of the Night, 

As of the one I love. 

I heard the sounds of sorrow and delight, 

The manifold, soft chimes, 
That fill the haunted chambers of the Night, 

Like some old poet's rhymes. 

From the cool cisterns of the midnight air 

My spirit drank repose ; 
The fountain of perpetual peace flows there, — 

From those deep cisterns flows. 

O holy Night ! from thee I learn to bear 

What man has borne before ! 
Thou layest thy finger on the lips of Care, 

And they complain no more. 

Peace ! Peace ! Orestes- like I breathe this prayer ! 

Descend with broad- winged flight, 
The welcome, the thrice-prayed for, the most fair, 

The best-beloved Night. 



A PSALM OF LIFE. 

WHAT THE HEART OF THE YOUNG MAN SAID TO THE PSALMIST, 

Tell me not in mournful numbers, 
" Life is. but an empty dream!" 

For the soul is dead that slumbers, 

And things are not what they seem. 

Life is real ! Life is earnest ! 

And the grave is not its goal ; 
" Dust thou art, to dust returnest," 

Was not spoken of the soul. 

Not enjoyment, and not sorrow, 

Is our destined end or way ; 
But to act, that each to-morrow 

Find us farther than to-day. 

Art is long, and Time is fleeting, 

And our hearts, though stout and brave, 
Still, like muffled drums, are beating 

Funeral marches to the grave. 

In the world's broad field of battle, 

In the bivouac of Life, 
Be not like dumb, driven cattle ! 

Be a hero in the strife ! 



THE REAPER AND THE FLOWERS. 101 

Trust no Future, howe'er pleasant ! 

Let the dead Past bury its dead ! 
Act, — act in the Hying Present ! 

Heart within, and God o'erhead ! 

Lives of great men all remind us 

We can make our lives sublime, 
And, departing, leave behind us 

Footprints on the sands of time ; 

Footprints, that perhaps another, 

Sailing o'er life's solemn main, 
A forlorn and shipwrecked brother, 

Seeing, shall take heart again. 

Let us then be up and doing, 

With a heart for any fate ; 
Still achieving, still pursuing, 

Learn to labour and to wait. 



THE REAPER AND THE FLOWERS. 

There is a Reaper, whose name is Death, 

And, with his sickle keen, 
He reaps the bearded grain at a breath, 

And the flowers that grow between. 

" Shall I have nought that is fair ?" saith he ; 
" Have nought but the bearded grain ? 




I will give them all back a gain. ' 



He gazed at the flowers with tearful eyes, 
He kissed their drooping leaves ; 

It was for the Lord of Paradise 
He bound them in his sheaves. 



THE REAPER AND THE FLOWERS. 



103 



" My Lord has need of these flowerets gay," 
The Reaper said, and smiled ; 

" Dear tokens of the earth are they, 
Where He was once a child. 

" They shall all bloom in fields of light, 

Transplanted by my care, 
And saints, upon their garments white, 

These sacred blossoms wear." 

And the mother gave, in tears and pain, 
The flowers she most did love ; 

She knew she should find them all again 
In the fields of light above. 

O, not in cruelty, not in wrath, 

The Reaper came that day ; 
'T was an angel visited the green earth, 

And took the flowers away. 




THE LIGHT OF STARS. 



The night is come, but not too soon 

And sinking silently, 
All silently, the little moon 

Drops down behind the sky. 

There is no light in earth or heaven, 
But the cold light of stars ; 

And the first watch of night is given 
To the red planet Mars. 

Is it the tender star of love ? 

The star of love and dreams ? 
no ! from that blue tent above, 

A hero's armour gleams. 




THE LIGHT OF STARS. 105 

And earnest thoughts within me rise, 

When I behold afar, 
Suspended in the evening skies, 

The shield of that red star. 

star of strength ! I see thee stand 

And smile upon my pain ; 
Thou beckonest with thy mailed hand. 
And I am strong again. 

Within my breast there is no light, 
But the cold light of stars ; 

1 give the first watch of the night* 

To the red planet Mars. 



The star of the unconquered will, 
He rises in my breast, 

Serene, and resolute, and still, 

And calm, and self-possessed. 

And thou, too, whosoe'er thou art, 
That readest this brief psalm, 

As oite by one thy hopes depart, 
Be resolute and calm. 

O fear not in a world like this, 

And thou shalt know ere long, 

Know how sublime a thing it is 
To suffer and be strong. 



FOOTSTEPS OF ANGELS. 

When the hours of Day are numbered, 
And the voices of the Night 

Wake the better soul, that slumbered, 
To a holy, calm delight ; 

Ere the evening lamps are lighted, 

And, like phantoms grim and tall, 

Shadows from the fitful fire-light 
Dance upon the parlour wall ; 

Then the forms of the departed 

Enter at the open door ; 
The beloved, the true-hearted, 

Come to visit me once more ; 

He, the young and strong, who cherished 
Noble longings for the strife, 

By the road-side fell and perishea, 
Weary with the march of life ! 

They, the holy ones and weakly, 

AVho the cross of suffering bore, 

Eolded their pale hands so meekly, 
Spake with us on earth no more ! 



FOOTSTEPS OF ANGELS. 107 

And with them the Being Beauteous, 
Who unto my youth was given, 

More than all things else to love me, 
And is now a saint in heaven. 

With a slow and noiseless footstep 
Comes that messenger divine, 

Takes the vacant chair beside me, 
Lays her gentle hand in mine. 

And she sits and gazes at me 

With those deep and tender eyes, 

Like the stars, so still and saint-like, 
Looking downward from the skies. 

Uttered not, yet comprehended, 

Is the spirit's voiceless prayer, 

Soft rebukes in blessings ended, 
Breathing from her lips of air. 

O, though oft depressed and lonely, 
All my fears are laid aside, 

If I but remember only 

Such as these have lived and died ! 



VOICES OF THE NIGHT. 




Spake full well, in language quaint and olden, 
One who dwelleth by the castled Khine, 

When he called the flowers, so blue and golden. 
Stars that in earth's firmament do shine. 



Stars they are, wherein we read our history, 

As astrologers and seers of eld; 
Yet not wrapped about with awful mystery, 

Like the burning stars, which they beheld. 

Wondrous truths, and manifold as wondrous, 
God hath written in those stars above ; 

But not less in the bright flowerets under us 
Stands the revelation of His love. 

Bright and glorious is that revelation, 

Written all over this great world of ours ; 

Making evident our own creation, 

In these stars of earth, — these golden flowers. 



FLOWERS. 101) 

And the Poet, faithful and far-seeing, 

Sees, alike in stars and flowers, a part 

Of the self-same, universal being, 

Which is throbbing in his brain and heart. 

Gorgeous flowerets in the sunlight shining, 
Blossoms flaunting in the eye of day, 

Tremulous leaves, with soft and silver lining, 
Buds that open only to decay; 

Brilliant hopes, all woven in gorgeous tissues, 
Flaunting gayly in the golden light ; 

Large desires, with most uncertain issues, 
Tender wishes, blossoming at night ! 

These in flowers and men are more than seeming- 
Workings are they of the self-same powers, 

Which the Poet, in no idle dreaming, 
Seeth in himself and in the flowers. 

Everywhere about us are they glowing, 

Some like stars, to tell us Spring is born ; 

Others, their blue eyes with tears o'erflowing, 
Stand like Ruth amid the Golden corn ; 

Not alone in Spring's armorial bearing, 

And in Summer's green-emblazoned field, 

But in arms of brave old Autumn's wearing, 
In the centre of his brazen shield ; 



110 VOICES OF THE NIGHT. 

Not alone in meadows and green alleys, 

On the mountain-top, and by the brink 

Of sequestered pools in woodland valleys, 

Where the slaves of Nature stoop to drink ; 

Not alone in her vast dome of glory? 

Not on graves of bird and beast alone, 
But in old cathedrals, high and hoary, 

On the tombs of heroes, carved in stone ; 

In the cottage of the rudest peasant, 

In ancestral homes, whose crumbling towers, 
Speaking of the Past unto the Present, 

Tell us of the ancient Games of Flowers ; 

In all places, then, and in all seasons, 

Flowers expand their light and soul-like wings, 
Teaching us, by most persuasive reasons, 

How akin they are to human things. 

And with childlike, credulous affection 
We behold their tender buds expand; 

Emblems of our own great resurrection, 

Emblems of the bright and better land. 



THE BELEAGUERED CITY. 

I have read, in some old marvellous tale, 
Some legend strange and vague, 

That a midnight host of spectres pale 
Beleaguered the walls of Prague. 

Beside the Moldau's rushing stream, 
With the wan moon overhead, 

There stood, as in an awful dream, 
The army of the dead. 



White as a sea-fog, landward bound, 
The spectral camp was seen, 

And, with a sorrowful, deep sound, 
The river flowed between. 



No other voice nor sound was there, 
No drum, nor sentry's pace ; 

The mist-like banners clasped the ah', 
As clouds with clouds embrace. 

But, when the old cathedral bell 

Proclaimed the morning prayer, 

The white pavilions rose and fell 
On the alarmed air. 



112 VOICES OF THE NIGHT. 

Down the broad valley fast and far 

The troubled army fled ; 
Up rose the glorious morning star, 

The ghastly host was dead. 

I have read, in the marvellous heart of man, 
That strange and mystic scroll, 

That an army of phantoms vast and wan 
Beleaguer the human soul. 

Encamped beside Life's rushing stream, 

In Fancy's misty light, 
Gigantic shapes and shadows gleam 

Portentous through the night. 

Upon its midnight battle-ground 

The spectral camp is seen, 
And, with a sorrowful, deep sound, 

Flows the River of Life between. 

No other voice, nor sound is there, 

In the army of the grave ; 
No other challenge breaks the air, 

But the rushing of Life's wave. 

And, when the solemn and deep church-bell 

Entreats the soul to pray, 
The midnight phantoms feel the spell, 

The shadows sweep away. 



MIDNIGHT MASS FOR THE DYING YEAR. 

Down the broad Vale of Tears afar 
The spectral carnp is fled ; 

Faith shineth as a morning star, 
Our ghastly fears are dead. 



MIDNIGHT MASS FOR THE DYING YEAR. 

Yes, the year is growing old, 

And his eye is pale and bleared ! 

Death, with frosty hand and cold, 

Plucks the old man by the beard, 
Sorely, — sorely ! 

The leaves are falling, falling, 

Solemnly and slow : 
" Caw ! caw ! " the rooks are calling, 

It is a sound of woe, 
A sound of woe ! 

Through woods and mountain passes 
The winds, like anthems, roll ; 

They are chanting solemn masses, 

Singing, " Pray for this poor soul, 
Pray, — pray ! " 

And the hooded clouds, like friars, 
Tell their beads in drops of rain, 



114 VOICES OE THE NIGHT. 

And patter their doleful prayers ; — 
But their prayers are all in vain, 
All in vain ! 

There he stands in the foul weather, 

The foolish, fond Old Year, 
Crowned with wild flowers and with heather. 

Like weak, despised Lear, 
A king-,— a king ! 

Then comes the summer-like day, 

Bids the old man rejoice ! 
His joy ! his last ! O, the old man gray, 

Loveth that ever-soft voice, 
Gentle and low. 

To the crimson woods he saith, — 

To the voice gentle and low 
Of the soft air, like a daughter's breath, — 

" Pray do not mock me so ! 

Do not laugh at me ! " 

And now the sweet day is dead ; 

Cold in his arms it lies ; 
No stain from his breath is spread 

Over the glassy skies, 

No mist or stain ! 

Then, too, the Old Year dieth, 

And the forests utter a moan, 



MIDNIGHT MASS FOR THE DYING YEAR. 115 

Like the voice of one who crieth 
In the wilderness alone, 

" Vex not his ghost ! " 

Then comes, with an awful roar, 
Gathering and sounding on, 

The storm-wind from Labrador, 
The wind Euvoclydon, 
The storm-wind ! 

Howl ! howl ! and from the forest 
Sweep the red leaves away ! 

Would the sins that thou abhorrest, 
O Soul ! could thus decay, 
And be swept away ! 

For there shall come a mightier blast, 

There shall be a darker day ; 
And the stars, from heaven down-cast, 
Like red leaves be swept away ! 
Kyrie, eleyson ! 
Christe, eleyson ! 




^■^ 



L' ENVOI. 

Ye voices, that arose 

After the Evening's close, 

And whispered to my restless heart repose ! 

Go, breathe it in the ear 

Of all who doubt and fear, 

And say to them, " Be of good cheer !" 



Ye sounds, so low and calm, 

That in the groves of balm 

Seemed to me like an angel's psalm ! 

Go, mingle yet once more 

With the perpetual roar 

Of the pine forest, dark and hoar ! 



Tongues of the dead, not lost, 
But speaking from death's frost, 
Like fiery tongues at Pentecost ! 

Glimmer, as funeral lamps, 
Amid the chills and damps 
Of the vast plain where Death encamps 



THE SEASIDE AND THE FIRESIDE. 



DEDICATION. 

As one who, walking in the twilight gloom, 

Hears round about him voices as it darkens, 

And seeing not the forms from which they come, 

Pauses from time to time, and turns and hearkens 

So walking here in twilight, O my friends ! 

I hear your voices softened by the distance, 
And pause, and turn to listen, as each sends 

His words of friendship, comfort, and assistance. 

If any thought of mine, or sung or told, 
Has ever given delight or consolation, 

Ye have repaid me back a thousand fold, 
By every friendly sign and salutation. 

Thanks for the sympathies that ye have shown ! 

Thanks for each kindly word, each silent token, 
That teaches me, when seeming most alone, 

Friends are around us, though no word be spoken. 

Kind messages, that pass from land to land ; 

Kind letters, that betray the heart's deep history, 
In which we feel the pressure of a hand, — 

One touch of fire, — and all the rest is mystery ! 



120 DEDICATION. 

The pleasant books, that silently among 

Our household treasures take familiar places, 

And are to us as if a living tongue 

Spake from the printed leaves or pictured faces ! 



Perhaps on earth I never shall behold, 

With eye of sense, your outward form and semblance 
Therefore to me ye never will grow old, 

But live for ever young in my remembrance. 

Never grow old, nor change, nor pass away ! 

Your gentle voices will Aoav on for ever, 
When life grows bare and tarnished with decay, 

As through a leafless landscape flows a river. 

Not chance of birth or place has made us friends, 

Being oftentimes of different tongues and nations, 

But the endeavour for the self-same ends, 

With the same hopes, and fears, and aspirations. 

Therefore I hope to join your seaside walk, 

Saddened, and mostly silent, with emotion ; 

Not interrupting with intrusive talk 

The grand, majestic symphonies of ocean. 

Therefore I hope, as no unwelcome guest, 

At your warm fireside, when the lamps are lighted, 
To have my place reserved among the rest, 

Nor stand as one unsought and uninvited. 




BY THE SEASIDE. 



THE BUILDING OF THE SHIP. 

" Build me straight, O worthy Master ! 

Staunch and strong, a goodly vessel, 
That shall laugh at all disaster, 

And with wave and whirlwind wrestle ! 



The merchant's word 

Delighted the Master heard ; 

For his heart was in his work, and the heart 

Giveth grace unto every Art. 



122 BY THE SEASIDE. 

A quiet smile played round his lips, 
As the eddies and dimples of the tide 
Play round the bows of ships, 
That steadily at anchor ride. 
And with a voice that was full of glee, 
He answered, " Ere long we will launch 
A vessel as goodly, and strong, and staunch, 
As ever weathered a wintry sea ! " 

And first with nicest skill and art, 

Perfect and finished in every part, 

A little model the Master wrought, 

Which should he to the larger plan 

What the child is to the man, 

Its counterpart in miniature ; 

That with a hand more swift and sure 

The greater labour might be brought 

To answer to his inward thought. 

And as he laboured, his mind ran o'er 

The various ships that were built of yore, 

And above them all, and strangest of all 

Towered the Great Harry, crank and tall, 

Whose picture was hanging on the wall, 

With bows and stern raised high in air, 

And balconies hanging here and there, 

And signal lanterns and flags afloat, 

And eight round towers, like those that frown 

From some old castle, looking down 

Upon the drawbridge and the moat. 



THE BUILDING OF THE SHIP. 123 

And he said with a smile, " Our ship, I wis, 
Shall he of another form than this ! " 



It was of another form, indeed ; 

Built for freight, and yet for speed, 

A beautiful and gallant craft ; 

Broad in the beam, that the stress of the blast, 

Pressing down upon sail and mast, 

Might not the sharp bows overwhelm ; 

Broad in the beam, but sloping aft 

With graceful curve and slow degrees, 

That she might be docile to the helm, 

And that the currents of parted seas, 

Closing behind, with mighty force, 

Might aid and not impede her course. 

In the ship-yard stood the Master, 

With the model of the vessel, 
That should laugh at all disaster, 

And with wave and whirlwind wrestle ! 

Covering many a rood of ground, 
Lay the timber piled around ; 
Timber of chesnut, and elm, and oak, 
And scattered here and there, with these, 
The knarred and crooked cedar knees ; 
Brought from regions far away, 
From Pascagoula's sunny bay, 
And the banks of the roaring Roanoke ! 



124 THE SEASIDE AND THE FIRESIDE. 

Ah ! what a wondrous thing it is 

To note how many wheels of toil 

One thought, one word, can set in motion ! 

There's not a ship that sails the ocean, 

But every climate, every soil, 

Must bring its tribute, great or small, 

And help to build the wooden wall! 

The sun was rising o'er the sea, 
And long the level shadows lay, 
As if they, too, the beams would be 
Of some great airy argosy, 
Framed and launched in a single day. 
That silent architect, the sun, 
Had hewn and laid them every one, 
Ere the work of man was yet begun. 
Beside the Master, when he spoke, 
A youth, against an anchor leaning, 
Listened to catch his slightest meaning, 
Only the long waves as they broke 
In ripples on the pebbly beach, 
Interrupted the old man's speech. 

Beautiful they were, in sooth, 
The old man and the fiery youth ! 
The old man, in whose busy brain 
Many a ship that sailed the main 
Was modelled o'er and o'er again ; — 
The fiery youth, who was to be 
The heir of his dexterity, 



THE BUILDING OF THE SHIP. 



125 




The heir of his house, and his daughter's hand, 
When he had built and launched from land 
What the elder head had planned. 



" Thus," said he, " will we build this ship ! 
Lay square the blocks upon the slip, 
And follow well this plan of mine. 
Choose the timbers with greatest care ; 
Of all that is unsound beware ; 



123 BY THE SEASIDE. 

For only what is sound and strong 

To this vessel shall belong. 

Cedar of Maine and Georgia pine 

Here together shall combine. 

A goodly frame, and a goodly fame, 

And the Union be her name ! 

For the day that gives her to the sea 

Shall give my daughter unto thee!" 



The Master's word 

Enraptured the young man heard ; 

And as he turned his face aside, 

With a look of joy and a thrill of pride, 

Standing before 

Her father's door, 

He saw the form of his promised bride. 

The sun shone on her golden hair, 

And her cheek was glowing fresh and fair, 

With the breath of morn and the soft sea air 

Like a beauteous barge was she, 

Still at rest on the sandy beach, 

Just beyond the billow's reach ; 

But he 

Was the restless, seething, stormy sea ! 

Ah, how skilful grows the hand 
That obeyeth Love's command ! 
It is the heart, and not the brain, 
That to the highest doth attain, 



THE BUILDING OF THE SHU'. 

And he who followeth Love's behest 
Far exceedeth all the rest ! 



Thus with the rising of the sun 

AVas the noble task begun, 

And soon throughout the ship-yard's bound.' 

Were heard the intermingled sounds 

Of axes and of mallets, plied 

With vigorous arms on every side : 

Plied so deftly and so well, 

That, ere the shadows of evening fell, 

The keel of oak for a noble ship, 

Scarfed and bolted, straight and strong, 

Was lying ready, and stretched along 

The blocks, well placed upon the slip. 

Happy, thrice happy, every one 

Who sees his labour well begun, 

And not perplexed and multiplied, 

By idly waiting for time and tide ! 

And when the hot, long day was o'er, 
The young man at the Master's door 
Sat with the maiden calm and still. 
And within the porch, a little more 
Removed beyond the evening chill, 
The father sat, and told them tales 
Of wrecks in the great September gales, 
Of pirates upon the Spanish Main, 
And ships that never came back again, 



BY THE SEASIDE, 




The chance and change of a sailor's life, 

Want and plenty, rest and strife, 

His roving fancy, like the wind, 

That nothing can stay and nothing can bind, 

And the magic charm of foreign lands, 

With shadows of palms, and shining sands, 

Where the tumbling surf, 

O'er the coral reefs of Madagascar, 

Washes the feet of the swarthy Lascar, 

As he lies alone and asleep on the turf. 



THE BUTLDING OF THE SHIP. 129 

And the trembling maiden held her breath 
At the tales of that awful, pitiless sea, 
"With all its terror and mystery, 
The dim, dark sea, so like unto Death, 
That divides and yet unites mankind ! 
And whenever the old man paused, a gleam 
From the bowl of his pipe would awhile illume 
The silent group in the twilight gloom, 
And thoughtful faces, as in a dream ; 
And for a moment one might mark 
W r hat had been hidden by the dark, 
That the head of the maiden lay at rest, 
Tenderly, on the young man's breast ! 

Day by day the vessel grew, 

With timbers fashioned strong and true, 

Stcmson and keelson and sternson-knee, 

Till, framed with perfect symmetry, 

A skeleton ship rose up to view ! 

And around the bows and along the side 

The heavy hammers and mallets plied, 

Till after many a week, at length, 

Wonderful for form and strength, 

Sublime in its enormous bulk, 

Loomed aloft the shadowy hulk ! 

And around it columns of smoke, upwreathing, 

Rose from the boiling, bubbling, seething 

Caldron, that glowed, 

And overflowed 

With the black tar, heated for the shea thin"-. 



130 



HY THE SEASIDE. 



And amid the clamours 

Of clattering hammers, 

He who listened heard now and then 

The song- of the Master and his men : 




" Build me straight, O worthy Master, 
Staunch and strong, a goodly vessel, 

That shall laugh at all disaster, 

And with wave and whirlwind wrestle ! 



With oaken brace and copper band, 
Lay the rudder on the sand, 



THE BUILDING OF THE SHIP. 131 

That, like a thought, should have control 

Over the movement of the Avhole ; 

And near it the anchor, whose giant hand 

Would reach down and grapple with the land, 

And immovable and fast 

Hold the great ship against the bellowing blast ! 

And at the bows an image stood, 

By a cunning artist carved in wood, 

With robes of white, that far behind 

Seemed to be fluttering in the wind. 

It was not shaped in a classic mould, 

Not like a Nymph or Goddess of old, 

Or Naiad rising from the water, 

But modelled from the Master's daughter ! 

On many a dreary and misty night, 

T will be seen by the rays of the signal light, 

Speeding along through the rain and the dark, 

Like a ghost in its snow-white sark, 

The pilot of some phantom bark, 

Guiding the vessel, in its flight, 

By a path none other knows aright ! 

Behold, at last, 

Each tall and tapering mast 

Is swung into its place ; 

Shrouds and stays 

Holding it firm and fast ! 

Long ago, 

In the deer-haunted forests of Maine, 
When upon mountain and plain 
Lay the snow, 



132 BY THE SEASIDE, 

They fell, — those lordly pines ! 

Those grand, majestic pines ! 

'Mid shouts and cheers 

The jaded steers, 

Panting beneath the goad, 

Dragged down the weary, winding road 

Those captive kings so straight and tall, 

To be shorn of their streaming hair, 

And, naked and bare, 

To feel the stress and the strain 

Of the wind and the reeling main, 

Whose roar 

Would remind them for evermore 

Of their native forests they should not see again. 

And everywhere 

The slender, graceful spars 

Poise aloft in the air, 

And at the mast head, 

White, blue, and red, 

A flag unrolls the stripes and stars. 

Ah ! when the wanderer, lonely, friendless, 

In foreign harbours shall behold 

That flag unrolled, 

'T will be as a friendly hand 

Stretched out from his native land, 

Filling his heart with memories sweet and endless ! 

All is finished ! and at length 
Has come the bridal day 
Of beauty and of strength. 



THE BUILDING OF THE SHIP. 133 

To-day the vessel shall he launched ! 
With fleecy clouds the sky is blanched, 
And o'er the bay, 

Slowly, in all his splendours dight, 
The great sun rises to behold the sight. 

The ocean old 

Centuries old, 

Strong as youth, and as uncontrolled, 

Paces restless to and fro, 

Up and down the sands of gold. 

His beating heart is not at rest ; 

And far and wide, 

With ceaseless flow, 

His beard of snow 

Heaves with the heaving of his breast. 

He waits impatient for his bride. 

There she stands, 

With her foot upon the sands, 

Decked with flags and streamers gay, 

In honour of her marriage day, 

Her snow-white signals fluttering, blending, 

Round her like a veil descending, 

Ready to be 

The bride of the gray, old sea. 

On the deck another bride 

Is standing by her lover's side. 



134 BY THE SEASIDE. 

Shadows from the flags and shrouds, 
Like the shadows cast by clouds, 
Broken by many a sunny fleck, 
Fall around them on the deck. 

The prayer is said, 

The service read, 

The joyous bridegroom bows his head ; 

And in tears the good old Master 

Shakes the brown hand of his son, 

Kisses his daughter's glowing cheek 

In silence, for he cannot speak, 

And ever faster 

Down his own the tears begin to run. 

The worthy pastor — 

The shepherd of that wandering flock, 

That has the ocean for its wold, 

That has the vessel for its fold, 

Leaping ever from rock to rock — 

Spake, with accents mild and clear, 

Words of warning , words of cheer, 

But tedious to the bridegroom's ear. 

He knew the chart 

Of the sailor's heart, 

All its pleasures and its griefs, 

All its shallows and rocky reefs, 

All those secret currents, that flow 

With such resistless undertow. 

And lift and drift, with terrible force, 

The will from its moorings and its course. 

Therefore he spake, and thus said he : — 



THE BUILDING OF THE SHIP. 135 

" Like unto sliips far off at sea, 

Outward or homeward bound are we. 

Before, behind, and all around, 

Floats and swings the horizon's bound, 

Seems at its distant rim to rise 

And climb the crystal wall of the skies, 

And then again to turn and sink, 

As if we could slide from its outer brink. 

Ah ! it is not the sea, 

It is not the sea that sinks and shelves, 

But ourselves 

That rock and rise 

With endless and uneasy motion, 

Now touching the very skies, 

Now sinking into the depths of ocean. 

Ah ! if our souls but poise and swing 

Like the compass in its brazen ring, 

Ever level and ever true 

To the toil and the task we have to do, 

We shall sail securely, and safely reach 

The Fortunate Isles, on whose shining beach 

The sights we see, and the sounds we hear, 

Will be those of joy and not of fear! " 

Then the Master, 

With a gesture of command, 

Waved his hand ; 

And at the word, 

Loud and sudden there was heard, 

All around them and below, 

The sound of hammers, blow on blow, 



136 



BY THE SEASIDE. 



Knocking away the shores and spurs. 

And see ! she stirs ! 

She starts, — she moves, — she seems to feel 

The thrill of life along her keel, 

And, spurning with her foot the ground, 

With one exulting, joyous hound, 

She leaps into the ocean's arms ! 



JS& 







And lo ! from the assembled crowd 

There rose a shout, prolonged and loud, 

That to the ocean seemed to say, — • 

" Take her, O bridegroom, old and gray, 

Take her to thy protecting arms, 

With all her youth and all her charms !" 



THE BUTLDING OF THE SHIP. 137 

How beautiful she is ! How fair 

She lies within those arms, that press 

Her form with many a soft caress 

Of tenderness and watchful care ! 

Sail forth into the sea, O ship ! 

Through wind and wave right onward steer ! 

The moistened eye, the trembling lip, 

Are not the signs of doubt or fear. 

Sail forth into the sea of life, 
O gentle, loving, trusting wife, 
And safe from all adversity 
Upon the bosom of that sea 
Thy comings and thy goings be ! 
For gentleness and love and trust 
Prevail o'er angry wave and gust ; 
And in the wreck of noble lives 
Something immortal still survives ! 

Thou, too, sail on, O Ship of State ! 
Sail on, O Union, strong and great ! 
Humanity with all its fears, 
With all the hopes of future years, 
Is hanging breathless on thy fate ! 
We know what Master laid thy keel, 
What Workman wrought thy ribs of steel, 
Who made each mast, and sail, and rope, 
What anvils rang, what hammers beat, 
In what a forge and what a heat 
Were shaped the anchors of thy hope ! 



138 BY THE SEASIDE. 

Fear not each sudden sound and shock, 

'T is of the wave and not the rock ; 

'T is but the flapping of the sail, 

And not a rent made by the gale ! 

In spite of rock and tempest's roar, 

In spite of false lights on the shore, 

Sail ou, nor fear to breast the sea! 

Our hearts, our hopes, are all with thee, 

Our hearts, our hopes, our prayers, our tears, 

Our faith triumphant o'er our fears, 

Are all with thee, — are all with thee ! 



THE EVENING STAR. 

Just above yon sandy bar, 

As the day grows fainter and dimmer, 
Lonely and lovely, a single star 

Lights the air with a dusky glimmer. 

Into the ocean faint and far 

Falls the trail of its golden splendour, 

And the gleam of that single stal- 
ls ever refulgent, soft, and tender. 

Chrysaor rising out of the sea, 

Showed thus glorious and thus emulous, 
Leaving the arms of Callirrhoe, 

For ever tender, soft, and tremulous. 



THE BUILDING OF THE SHIP. 139 

Thus, o'er the ocean faint and far 

Trailed the gleam of his falchion brightly ; 
Is it a God, or is it a star 

That, entranced, I gaze on nightly ! 




THE SECRET OF THE SEA. 

Ah ! What pleasant visions haunt me 
As I gaze upon the sea ! 

All the old romantic legends, 

All my dreams, come back to me. 

Sails of silk and ropes of sendal, 
Such as gleam in ancient lore ! 

And the singing of the sailors, 

And the answer from the shore ! 

Most of all, the Spanish ballad 

Haunts me oft, and tarries long, 



140 



BY THE SEASIDE. 



Of the noble Count Arnaldos, 
And the sailor's mystic song. 

Like the long waves on a sea-beach, 
Where the sand as silver shines, 

With a soft, monotonous cadence, 
Flow its unrhymed lyric lines ; 

Telling how the Count Arnaldos, 

With his hawk upon his hand, 
Saw a fair and stately galley, 

Steering onward to the land ; — 




: 



THE SECRET OF THE SEA. 

How he heard the ancient helmsman 
Chant a song* so wild and clear, 

That the sailing sea-bird slowly 
Poised upon the mast to hear. 



Till his soul was full of longing, 

And he cried, with impulse strong — 

" Helmsman ! for the love of heaven, 
Teach me, too, that wondrous song ! 



" Would'st thou, — so the helmsman answered, 

" Learn the secret of the sea ? 
Only those Avho brave its dangers 

Comprehend its mystery ! " 

In each sail that skims the horizon, 
In each landward-blowing breeze, 

I behold that stately galley, 

Hear those mournful melodies. 



Till my soul is full of longing 

For the secret of the sea, 
And the heart of the great ocean 

Sends a thrilling pulse through me. 




TWILIGHT. 

The twilight is sad and cloudy, 
The wind blows wild and free, 

And like the wings of sea-birds 

Flash the white caps of the sea. 



But in the fisherman's cottage 
There shines a ruddier light, 

And a little face at the window 
Peers out into the night. 



TWILIGHT. 



143 



Close, close it is pressed to the window, 

As if those childish eyes 
Were looking into the darkness, 

To see some form arise. 

And a woman's waving shadow 

Is passing to and fro, 
Now rising to the ceiling, 

Now bowing and bending low. 

What tale do the roaring ocean, 

And the night-wind, bleak and wild, 

As they beat at the crazy casement, 
Tell to that little child ? 

And why do the roaring ocean, 

And the night-wind, wild and bleak, 

As they beat at the heart of the mother, 
Drive the colour from her cheek ? 




SIR HUMPHREY GILBERT. 

Southward with fleet of ice 

Sailed the corsair Death ; 
Wild and fast blew the blast, 

And the east- wind was his breath. 

His lordly ships of ice 

Glistened in the sun ; 
On each side, like pennons wide, 

Flashing crystal streamlets run. 

His sails of white sea-mist 
Dripped with silver rain ; 

But where he passed there were cast 
Leaden shadows o'er the main. 

Eastward from Campobello 

Sir Humphrey Gilbert sailed ; 

Three days or more seaward he bore, 
Then, alas! the land-wind failed. 

Alas ! the land-wind failed, 

And ice-cold grew the night ; 

And never more, on sea or shore, 

Should Sir Humphrey sec the light. 



SIR HUMPHREY GILBERT. 115 

He sat upon the deck, 

The Book was in his hand ; 
" Do not fear ! Heaven is as near,*' 

He said, "by water as by land ! " 

In the first watch of the night, 

Without a signal's sound, 
Out of the sea, mysteriously, 

The fleet of Death rose all around. 

The moon and the evening star 

Were hanging in the shrouds ; 

Every mast, as it passed, 

Seemed to rake the passing clouds. 

They grappled with their prize, 

At midnight black and cold ! 
As of a rock was the shock ; 

. Heavily the ground-swell rolled. 

Southward through day and dark, 

They drift in close embrace, 
With mist and rain, to the Spanish Main ; 

Yet there seems no change of place. 

Southward, for ever southward, 

Thsy drift through dark and day ; 

And like a dream, in the Gulf-Stream 
Sinking, vanish all away. 




THE LIGHTHOUSE. 

The rocky ledge runs far into the sea, 

And on its outer point, some miles away, 

The lighthouse lifts its massive masonry, 

A pillar of fire by night, of cloud by day. 



Even at this distance I can see the tides, 

Upheaving, break unheard along its base, 

A speechless wrath, that rises and subsides 
In the white lip and tremour of the face. 



THE LIGHTHOUSE. 147 

And as the evening darkens, lo ! bow bright, 

Through the deep purple of the twilight air, 

Beams forth the sudden radiance of its light 

With strange, unearthly splendour in its glare ! 

Not one alone ; from each projecting cape 

And perilous reef along the ocean's verge, 

Starts into life a dim, gigantic shape, 

Holding its lantern o'er the restless surge. 

Like the great giant Christopher it stands 
Upon the brink of the tempestuous wave, 

Wading far out among the rocks and sands, 
The night-o'ertaken mariner to save. 

And the great ships sail outward and return, 

Bending and bowing o'er the billowy swells, 

And ever joyful, as they see it burn, 

They wave their silent welcomes and farewells. 

They come forth from the darkness, and their sails 
Gleam for a moment only in the blaze, 

And eager faces, as the light unveils, 

Gaze at the tower, and vanish while they gaze. 

The mariner remembers when a child, 

On his first voyage, he saw it fade and sink ; 

And when, returning from adventures wild, 
He saw it rise again o'er ocean's brink. 



148 BY THE SEASIDE. 

Steadfast, serene, immoveable, the same 

Year after year, through all the silent night 

Burns on for evermore that quenchless flame, 
Shines on that inextinguishable light ! 

It sees the ocean to its bosom clasp 

The rocks and sea-sand with the kiss of peace 
It sees the wild winds lift it in their grasp, 

And hold it up, and shake it like a fleece. 

The startled waves leap over it ; the storm 

Smites it with all the scourges of the rain, 

And steadily against its solid form 

Press the great shoulders of the hurricane. 

The sea-bird wheeling round it, with the din 
Of wings and winds and solitary cries, 

Blinded and maddened by the light within, 
Dashes himself against the glare, and dies. 

A new Prometheus, chained upon the rock, 
Still grasping in his hand the fire of Jove, 

It does not hear the cry, nor heed the shock, 
But hails the mariner with words of love. 

" Sail on ! " it says, " sail on, ye stately ships ! 

And with your floating bridge the ocean span ; 
Be mine to guard this light from all eclipse, 

Be vours to bring- man nearer unto man ! " 



THE FIRE OF DRIFT-WOOD. 

We sat within the farm-house old, 

Whose windows, looking o'er the bay, 

Gave to the sea-breeze, damp and cold, 
An easy entrance, night and day. 

Not far away we saw the port, — 

The strange old-fashioned, silent town, — 
The lighthouse,' — the dismantled fort, — 

The wooden houses, quaint and brown. 

We sat and talked until the night, 

Descending, filled the little room ; 

Our faces faded from the sight, 

Our voices only broke the gloom. 

We spake of many a vanished scene, 

Of what we once had thought and said, 

Of what had been, and might have been, 

And who was changed, and who was dead ; 

And all that fills the hearts of friends, 

When first they feel, with secret pain, 

Their lives thenceforth have separate ends, 
And never can be one again ; 

The first slight swerving of the heart, 
That words are powerless to express, 

And leave it still unsaid in part, 
Or say it in too great excess. 



150 13Y THE FIRESIDE. 

The very tones in which we spake 

Had something strange, I could but mark : 
The leaves of memory seemed to make 

A mournful rustling in the dark. 

Oft died the words upon our lips, 

As suddenly, from out the fire 
Built of the wreck of stranded ships, 

The flames would leap and then expire. 

And, as their splendour flashed and failed, 
"VVe thought of wrecks upon the main, — 

Of ships dismasted, that were hailed 
And sent no answer back again. 

The windows, rattling in their frames, — 
The ocean, roaring up the beach, — 

The gusty blast, — the bickering flames, — 
All mingled vaguely in our speech ; 

Until they made themselves a part 

Of fancies floating through the brain, — 

The long-lost ventures of the heart, 
That send no answer back again. 

O flames that glowed ! O hearts that yearned ! 

They were indeed too much akin, 
The drift-wood fire without that burned, 

The thoughts that burned and glowed within. 







BY THE FIRESIDE. 



RESIGNATION. 



There is no flock, however watched and tended, 

But one dead lamb is there ! 
There is no fireside, howsoe'er defended, 

But has one vacant chair ! 



152 BY THE FIRESIDE. 

The air is full of farewells to the dying, 
And mournings for the dead ; 

The heart of Rachel, for her children crying, 
Will not be comforted. 



Let us be patient! These severe afflictions 

Not from the ground arise, 
But oftentimes celestial benedictions 

Assume this dark disguise. 

We see but dimly through the mists and vapours 

Amid these earthly damps 
What seem to us but sad, funereal tapers 

May be Heaven's distant lamps. 

• 
There is no Death ! What seems so is transition ; 

This life of mortal breath 
Is but a suburb of the life elysian, 

Whose portal we call Death. 

She is not dead, — the child of our affection, — 

But gone unto that school 
Where she no longer needs our poor protection, 

And Christ himself doth rule. 

In that great cloister's stillness and seclusion, 

By guardian angels led, 
Safe from temptation, safe from sin's pollution, 

She lives whom we call dead. 



RESIGNATION. 153 

Day after day we tliink what she is doing 1 

In those bright realms of air ! 
Year after year, her tender steps pursuing-, 

Behold her grown more fair. 

Thus do we walk with her, and keep unbroken 

The bond which nature gives, 
Thinking that our remembrance, though unspoken. 

May reach her where she lives. 

Not as a child shall Ave again behold her ; 

For when with raptures wild 
In our embraces we again enfold her, 

She will not be a child ; 

But a fair maiden, in her Father's mansion, 

Clothed with celestial grace ; 
And beautiful with all the soul's expansion 

Shall we behold her face. 



And though at times impetuous with emotion, 

And anguish long suppressed, 
The swelling heart heaves moaning like the ocean . 

That cannot be at rest, — 

We will be patient, and assuage the feeling 

We may not wholly stay ; 
By silence sanctifying, not concealing, 

The grief that must have way. 



THE BUILDERS. 

All are architects of Fate, 

Working in these walls of Time ; 
Some with massive deeds and great, 

Some with ornaments of rhyme. 

Nothing useless is, or low ; 

Each thing in its place is best ; 
And what seems but idle show 

Strengthens and supports the rest. 

For the structure that we raise, 
Time is with materials filled ; 

Our to-days and yesterdays 

Are the blocks with which we build. 

Truly shape and fashion these ; 

Leave no yawning gaps between ; 
Think not, because no man sees, 

Such things will remain unseen. 

In the elder days of Art, 

Builders wrought with greatest care 
Each minute and unseen part ; 

For the Gods see everywhere. 

Let us do our work as well, 

Both the unseen and the seen : 



SAND OF THE DESERT. 155 

Make the house where Gods may dwell, 
Beautiful, entire, and clean. 

Else our lives are incomplete, 

Standing in these walls of Time, 

Broken stairways, where the feet 
Stumble as they seek to climb. 

Build to-day, then, strong and sure, 
With a firm and ample base ; 

And ascending and secure 

Shall to-morrow find its place. 

Thus alone can we attain 

To those turrets, where the eye 

Sees the world as one vast plain, 

And one boundless reach of sky. 



SAND OF THE DESERT IN AN HOUR-GLASS. 



A handful of red sand, from the hot clime 

Of Arab deserts brought, 
Within this glass becomes the spy of Time, 

The minister of Thought. 



How many weary centuries has it been 
About those deserts blown! 



150 



BY THE FIRESIDE. 



How many strange vicissitudes has seen, 
How many histories known ! 

Perhaps the camels of the Ishmaelite 

Trampled and passed it o'er, 
When into Egypt from the patriarch's sight 

His favourite son they bore. 

Perhaps the feet of Moses, burnt and bare, 
Crushed it beneath their tread ; 

Or Pharaoh's flashing wheels into the air 
Scattered it as they sped ; 

Or Mary, with the Christ of Nazareth 

Held close in her caress, 
Whose pilgrimage of hope and love and faith 

Illumed the wilderness ; 




SAND OF THE DESERT, 137 

Or anchorites beneath Engaddi's palms 

Pacing the Red Sea beach, 
And singing slow their old Armenian psalms 

In half- articulate speech ; 

Or caravans, that from Bassora's gate 

With westward steps depart ; 
Or Mecca's pilgrims, confident of Fate, 

And resolute in heart ! 

■4 

These have passed over it, or may have passed 

Now in this crystal tower 
Imprisoned by some curious hand at last, 

It counts the passing hour. 

And as I gaze, these narrow walls expand; — 

Before my dreamy eye 
Stretches the desert with its shifting sand, 

Its unimpeded sky. 

And borne aloft by the sustaining blast, 

This little golden thread 
JDilates into a column high and vast, 

A form of fear and dread. 

And onward, and across the setting sun, 

Across the boundless plain, 
The column and its broader shadow run, 

Till thought pursues in vain. 



158 BY THE FIRESIDE. 

The vision vanishes! These walls again 

Shut out the lurid sun, 
Shut out the hot, immeasurable plain ; 

The half-hour's sand is run ! 



BIRDS OF PASSAGE. 

Black shadows fall 
From the lindens tall, 
That lift aloft their massive wall 
Against the southern sky; 

And from the realms 
Of the shadowy elms 
A tide-like darkness overwhelms 
The fields that round us lie, 

But the night is fair, 
And everywhere 

A w T arm, soft, vapour fills the air, 
And distant sounds seem near ; 

And above, in the light 
Of the star-lit night, 
Swift birds of passage wing their flight 
Through the dewy atmosphere. 



BIRDS OF PASSAGE. 159 

I hear the beat 
Of their pinions fleet, 
As from the land of snow and sleet 
They seek a southern lea. 

I hear the cry 
Of their voices high 
Falling dreamily through the sky, 
But their forms I cannot see. 

O, say not so ! 
Those sounds that flow 
In murmurs of delight and woe 
Come not from wings of birds. 

They are the throngs 
Of the poet's songs, 

Murmurs of pleasures, and pains, and wrongs, 
The sound of winged words. 

This is the cry 
Of souls, that high 
On toiling, beating pinions, fly, 
Seeking a warmer clime. 

From their distant flight 
Through realms of light 
It falls into our world of night, 

AVith the murmuring sound of rhyme. 



160 



BY THE FIRESIDE. 







: 



^m 



THE OPEN WINDOW. 
# 
The old house by the lindens 
Stood silent in the shade, 
And on the gravelled pathway 
The light and shadow played. 



I saw the nursery windows 
Wide open to the air 



THE OPEN WINDOW. 101 

But the faces of the children, 
They were no longer there. 

The large Newfoundland house-dog 
Was standing by the door; 

He looked for his little playmates, 
Who would return no more. 

They walked not under the lindens, 
They played not in the hall ; 

But shadow, and silence, and sadness 
Were hanging over all. 

The birds sang in the branches, 
With sweet, familiar tone ; 

But the voices of the children 

Will be heard in dreams alone ! 

And the boy that walked beside me, 
He could not understand 

Why closer in mine, ah ! closer, 
I pressed his warm, soft hand ! 




KING WITLAF'S DRINKING-HORN. 

Witlaf, a king of the Saxons, 
Ere yet his last he breathed, 

To the merry monks of Croyland 

His drinking-horn bequeathed, — 

That, whenever they sat at their revels, 
And drank from the golden bowl, 

They might remember the donor, 

And breathe a prayer for his soul. 



So sat they once at Christmas, 
And bade the goblet pass 



KING WITLAFS DRINKING-HORN, 

In their beards the red wine glistened 
Like dew-drops in the grass. 

They drank to the soul of Witlaf, 
They drank to Christ the Lord, 

And to each of the Twelve Apostles, 
Who had preached His holy word. 

They drank to the Saints and Martyrs 
Of the dismal days of yore, 

And as soon as the horn was empty 
They remembered one Saint more. 

And the reader droned from the pulpit, 
Like the murmur of many bees, 

The legend of good Saint Guthlac, 
And Saint Basil's homilies: 

Till the great bells of the convent, 
From their prison in the tower, 

Guthlac and Bartholomeeus, 

Proclaimed the midnight hour. 

And the Yule-log cracked in the chimney 
And the Abbot bowed his head, 

And the flamelets napped and nickered, 
But the Abbot was stark and dead. 

Yet still in his pallid fingers 

He clutched the golden bowl, 



1(54 BY THE FIRESIDE. 

In which, like a pearl dissolving, 

Had sunk and dissolved his soul. 

But not for this their revels 
The jovial monks forbore, 

For they cried, " Fill high the goblet ! 
We must drink to one Saint more ! 



GASPAR BECERRA. 

By his evening fire the artist 

Pondered o'er his secret shame ; 

Baffled, weary, and disheartened, 

Still he mused and dreamed of fame. 

T was an image of the Virgin 

That had tasked his utmost skill ; 

But alas ! his fair ideal 

Vanished and escaped him still. 

From a distant eastern island 

Had the precious wood been brought 
Day and night the anxious master 

At his toil untiring wrought ; 

Till, discouraged and desponding, 
Sat he now in shadows deep, 



PEGASUS IN POUND. 165 

And the day's humiliation 
Found oblivion in sleep. 

Then a voice cried, " Rise, O master! 

From the burning brand of oak 
Shape the thought that stirs within thee !" 

And the startled artist woke, — 

Woke, and from the smoking embers 

Seized and quenched the glowing wood ; 

And therefrom he carved an image, 
And' he saw that it was good. 

thou sculptor, painter, poet ! 

Take this lesson to thy heart : 
That is best which lieth nearest ; 

Shape from that thy work of art. 



PEGASUS m POUND. 

Once into a quiet village, 

Without haste and without heed, 

In the golden prime of morning, 

Strayed the poet's winged steed. 

It was Autumn, and incessant 

Piped the quails from shocks and sheaves, 
And, like living coals, the apples 

Burned among the withering leaves. 

w 



166 BY THE FIRESIDE. 

Loud the clamorous bell was ringing 
From its belfry gaunt and grim ; 

'Twas the daily call to labour, 

Not a triumph meant for him. 

Not the less he saw the landscape, 
. In its gleaming vapour veiled ; 
Not the less he breathed the odours 
That the dying leaves exhaled. 

Thus, upon the village common, 

By the schoolboys he was found ; 

And the wise men, in their wisdom, 
Put him straightway into pound. 

Then the sombre village crier, 
Ringing loud his brazen bell, 

Wandered down the street proclaiming 
There was an estray to sell. 

And the curious country people, 

Rich and poor, and young and old, 

Came in haste to see this wondrous 
Winged steed, with mane of gold. 

Thus the day passed, and the evening 
Fell, with vapours cold and dim ; 

But it brought no food nor shelter, 

Brought no straw nor stall for him. 



PEGASUS IN POUND. 167 

Patiently, and still expectant, 

Looked lie through the wooden bars, 
Saw the moon rise o'er the landscape, 

Saw the tranquil, patient stars ; 

Till at length the bell at midnight 
Sounded from its dark abode, 

And, from out a neighbouring farm-yard, 
Loud the cock Alectryon crowed. 

Then, with nostrils wide distended, 
Breaking from his iron chain, 

And unfolding far his pinions, 

To those stars he soared again. 

On the morrow when the village 
Woke to all its toil and care, 

Lo ! the strange steed had departed, 

And they knew not when nor where. 

But they found, upon the greensward 

Where his straggling hoofs had trod, 

Pure and bright, a fountain flowing 
From the hoof-marks in the sod. 

From that hour the fount unfailing 
Gladdens the whole region round, 

Strengthening all who drink its waters, 
While it soothes them with its sound. 



TEGNERS DllAPA. 

I HEARD a voice that cried, 

" Balder the Beautiful 

Is dead, is dead ! " 

And through the misty air 

Passed like the mournful cry 

Of sunward sailing- cranes. 

I saw the pallid corpse 

Of the dead sun 

Borne through the Northern sky 

Blasts from Niffelheim 

Lifted the sheeted mists 

Around him as he passed. 

And the voice for ever cried, 

" Balder the Beautiful 

Is dead, is dead ! " 

And died away 

Through the dreary night, 

In accents of despair. 

Balder the Beautiful, 
God of the summer sun, 
Fairest of all the gods ! 
Light from his forehead beamed, 



TEGNERS DRAPA. 169 

Ilunes were upon his tongue, 
As on the warrior's sword. 

All things in earth and air 
Bound were by magic spell 
Never to do him harm ; 
Even the plants and stones ; 
All save the mistletoe, 
The sacred mistletoe ! 

Header, the blind old god, 
Whose feet are shod with silence, 
Pierced through that gentle breast 
With his sharp spear, by fraud 
Made of the mistletoe, 
The accursed mistletoe ! 

They laid him in his ship, 
With horse and harness, 
As on a funeral pyre. 
Odin placed 
A ring upon his finger, 
And whispered in his ear. 

They launched the burning ship ! 

It floated far away 

Over the misty sea, 

Till like the sun it seemed, 

Sinking beneath the waves. 

Balder returned no more ! 



170 BY THE FIRESIDE. 

So perish the old gods ! 
But out of the sea of Time 
Rises a new land of song, 
Fairer than the old. 
Over its meadows green 
Walk the young bards and sin; 

Build it again, 

O ye bards, 

Fairer than before ! 

Ye fathers of the new race, 

Feed upon morning dew, 

Sing the new Song of Love ! 

The law of force is dead ! 
The law of love prevails ! 
Thor, the thunderer, 
Shall rule the earth no more, 
No more, with threats, 
Challenge the meek Christ. 

Sing no more, 
O ye bards of the North, 
Of Vikings and of Jarls ! 
Of the days of Eld 
Preserve the freedom only, 
Not the deeds of blood ! 



SONNET 

ON MRS. KEMBLE'S READINGS FROM SHAKSTEARK 

O precious evenings! all too swiftly sped! 

Leaving us heirs to amplest heritages 

Of all the best thoughts of the greatest sages, 

And giving tongues unto the silent dead ! 

How our hearts glowed and trembled as she read, 

Interpreting by tones the wondrous pages 

Of the great poet who foreruns the ages, 

Anticipating all that shall be said ! 

O happy Reader ! having for thy text 

The magic book, whose Sibylline leaves have caught 

The rarest essence of all human thought ! 

O happy Poet ! by no critic vext ! 

How must thy listening spirit now rejoice 

To be interpreted by such a voice ! 



THE SINGERS. 

God sent his Singers upon earth 
With songs of sadness and of mirth, 
That they might touch the hearts of men, 
And bring them back to heaven again. 

The first a youth, with soul of fire, 
Held in his hand a golden lyre ; 



172 



BY THE FIRESIDE. 



■r*2 k ^^ 




Through groves he wandered, and by streams, 
Playing the music of our dreams. 



The second, with a bearded face, 
Stood singing- in the market place, 
And stirred with accents deep and loud 
The hearts of all the listening crowd. 



THE SINGERS. 



I "", I 



5 I ! I'] 



- - 







, 



,/. 









j: r-rtf 



A gray, old man, the third and last, 
Sang in cathedrals dim and vast, 
While the majestic organ rolled 
Contrition from its mouths of gold. 



And those who heard the Singers three 
Disputed which the best might he ; 
For still their music seemed to start 
Discordant echoes in each heart. 



174 



BY THE FIRESIDE. 




But the great Master said, " I see 

No best in kind, but in degree ; 

I gave a various gift to each, 

To charm, to strengthen, and to teach. 



" These are the three great chords of might, 
And he whose ear is tuned aright 
Will hear no discord in the three, 
But the most perfect harmony." 



S US PIMA. 

Take them, Death! and bear away 
Whatever thou canst call thine own ! 

Thine image, stamped upon this clay, 
Doth give thee that, but that alone ! 

Take them, O Grave ! and let them lie 
Folded upon thy narrow shelves, 

As garments by the soul laid by, 

And precious only to ourselves ! 

Take them, O great Eternity ! 

Our little life is but a gust, 
That bends the branches of thy tree, 

And trails its blossoms in the dust ! 



HYMX. 



FOR MY BROTHER S ORDINATIOX. 

Christ to the young man said : " Yet one thing more 

If thou wouldst perfect be, 
Sell all thou hast and give it to the poor, 

And come and follow me !" 

Within this temple Christ again, unseen, 
Those sacred words hath said, 



176 



BY THE FIRESIDE. 



And His invisible hands to-day have been 
Laid on a young man's head. 

And evermore beside him on his way 
The unseen Christ shall move, 

That he may lean upon his arm and say, 
" Dost thou, dear Lord, approve ?" 

Beside him at the marriage feast shall be, 
To make the scene more fair ; 

Beside him in the dark Gethsemane 
Of pain and midnight prayer. 

O holy trust ! O endless sense of rest ! 

Like the beloved John 
To lay his head upon the Saviour's breast, 

And thus to journey on ! 




POEMS ON SLAVERY 



The following poems, with one exception, were written at sea, in the 
latter part of October, 1842. I had not then heard of Dr. Channing's death. 
Since that event, the poem addressed to him is no longer appropriate. I have 
decided, however, to let it remain as it was written, a feeble testimony of my 
admiration for a great and good man. 




TO WILLIAM E. CIIANNING. 

The pages of thy book I read, 

And as I closed each one, 
My heart, responding, ever said, 

" Servant of God ! well done ! " 

Well done ! Thy words are great and bold 

At times they seem to me, 
Like Luther's in the days of old, 

Half-battles for the free. 

Go on, until this land revokes 

The old and chartered Lie, 
The feudal curse, whose. whips and yokes 

Insult humanity. 

A voice is ever at thy side 

Speaking in tones of might, 
Like the prophetic voice, that cried 

To John in Patmos, " Write !" 



ISO POEMS ON SLAVERY 



Write ! and tell out this bloody tale 
Record this dire eclipse, 

This Day of Wrath, this Endless Wail 
This dread Apocalypse ! 



THE SLAVE'S DREAM. 

Beside the un gathered rice he lay, 

His sickle in his hand ; 
His breast was bare, his matted hair 

Was buried in the sand. 
Again in the mist and shadow of sleep 

He saw his native land. 

Wide through the landscape of his dreams 

The lordly Niger flowed ; 
Beneath the palm trees on the plain 

Once more a king he strode ; 
And heard the tinkling caravans 

Descend the moantain road. 

He saw once more his dark- eyed queen 

Among her children stand ; 
They clasped his neck, they kissed his cheek; 

They held him by the hand ! — 
A tear burst from the sleeper's lids 

And fell into the sand. 



THE SLAVE'S DREAM. 



181 







And then at furious speed he rode 

Along the Niger's bank ; 
His bridle-reins were golden chains, 

And, with a martial clank, 
At each leap he could feel his scabbard of steel 

Smiting his stallion's flank. 



Before him, like a blood-red flag, 

The bright flamingoes flew ; 
From morn till night he followed their flight, 

O'er plains where the tamarind grew, 



182 POEMS ON SLAVERY. 

Till he saw the roofs of Caffre huts, 
And the ocean rose to view. 

At night he heard the lion roar, 

And the hyaena scream, 
And the river-horse, as he crushed the reeds 

Beside some hidden stream ; 
And it passed, like a glorious roll of drums, 

Through the triumph of his dream. 

The forests, with their myriad tongues, 

Shouted of liberty ; 
And the Blast of the Desert cried aloud, 

With a voice so wild and free, 
That he started in his sleep and smiled 

At their tempestuous glee. 

He did not feel the driver's whip, 
Nor the burning heat of day ; 

For Death had illumined the Land of Sleep, 
And his lifeless body lay 

A worn-out fetter, that the soul 
Had broken and thrown away ! 



THE GOOD PART, 

THAT SHALL NOT BE TAKEN AWAY. 

She dwells by Great Kenhawa's side, 
In valleys green and cool ; 

And all her hope and all her pride 
Are in the village school. 

Her soul, like the transparent air 
That robes the hills above, 

Though not of earth, encircles there 
All things with arms of love. 

And thus she walks among her girls 
With praise and mild rebukes ; 

Subduing e'en rude village churls 
By her angelic looks. 

She reads to them at eventide 
Of One who came to save ; 

To cast the captive's chains aside, 
And liberate the slave. 

And oft the blessed time foretells 
When all men shall be free ; 

And musical, as silver bells, 

Their falling chains shall be. 



184 POEMS ON SLAVERY. 

And following her beloved Lord, 

In decent poverty, 
She makes her life one sweet record 

And deed of charity. 

For she was rich, and gave up all 
To break the iron bands 

Of those who waited in her hall, 
And laboured in her lands. 

Long since beyond the Southern Sea 
Their outbound sails have sped, 

While she, in meek humility, 
Now earns her daily bread. 

It is their prayers, which never cease, 
That clothe her with such grace; 

Their blessing is the light of peace 
That shines upon her face. 



THE SLAVE IN THE DISMAL SWAMP. 

In dark fens of the Dismal Swamp 

The hunted Negro lay ; 
He saw the fire of the midnight camp, 
And heard at times a horse's tramp 

And a bloodhound's distant bav. 



THE SLAVE IN THE DISMAL SWAMP. 



185 




Where will-o'-the-wisps and glow-worms shine, 

In bulrush and in brake ; 
Where waving mosses shroud the pine, 
And the cedar grows, and the poisonous vine 

Is spotted like the snake ; 

Where hardly a human foot could pass, 

Or a human heart would dare, 
On the quaking turf of the green morass 
He crouched in the rank and tangled grass, 

Like a wild beast in his lair. 



A poor old slave, infirm and lame; 

Great scars deformed his face ; 
On his forehead he bore the brand of shame, 
And the rags, that hid his mangled frame, 

Were the livery of disgrace. 



186 POEMS ON SLAVERY. 

All things above were bright and fair. 

All things were glad and free ; 
Lithe squirrels darted here and there, 
And wild birds filled the echoing air 
With songs of Liberty! 

On him alone was the doom of pain, 
From the morning of his birth ; 
On him alone the curse of Cain 
Fell, like a flail on the garnered grain, 
And struck him to the earth ! 



THE SLAVE SINGING AT MIDNIGHT. 

Loud he sang the psalm of David ! 
He, a Negro and enslaved, 
Sang of Israel's victory, 
Sang of Zion, bright and free. 

In that hour, when night is calmest, 
Sang he from the Hebrew Psalmist, 
In a voice so sweet and clear 
That I could not choose but hear. 

Songs of triumph, and ascriptions, 
Such as reached the swart Egyptians, 
When upon the Red Sea coast 
Perished Pharaoh and his host. 



THE WITNESSES. 187 

And the voice of his devotion 
Filled my sonl with strange emotion ; 
For its tones by turns were glad, 
Sweetly solemn, wildly sad. 

Paul and Silas, in their prison, 
Sang of Christ, the Lord arisen, 
And an earthquake's arm of might 
Broke their dungeon gates at night. 

But, alas ! what holy angel 
Brings the Slave this glad evangel? 
And what earthquake's arm of might 
Breaks his dungeon gates at night ? 



THE WITNESSES. 

In Ocean's wide domains, 

Half buried in the sands, 

Lie skeletons in chains, 

With shackled feet and hands; 



Beyond the fall of dews, 

Deeper than plummet lies, 

Float ships with all their crews, 
No more to sink nor rise. 



188 POEMS ON SLAVERY. 

There the black Slave-ship swims, 
Freighted with human forms, 

Whose fettered, fleshless limbs 
Are not the sport of storms. 



These are the bones of Slaves ; 

They gleam from the abyss : 
They cry, from yawning waves, 

" We are the Witnesses ! " 

Within Earth's wide domains 
Are markets for men's lives ; 

Their necks are galled with chains, 

Their wrists are cramped with gyves. 

Dead bodies, that the kite 

In deserts makes its prey ; 
Murders, that with affright 

Scare schoolboys from their play ! 

All evil thoughts and deeds ; 

Anger, and lust, and pride ; 
The foulest, rankest weeds, 

That choke Life's groaning tide ! 

These are the woes of Slaves ; 

They glare from the abyss : 
They cry, from unknown graves, 

" We are the Witnesses ! '* 







THE QUADROON GIRL. 

The Slaver in the broad lagoon 
Lay moored with idle sail ; 

He waited for the rising moon, 
And for the evening gale. 



Under the shore his boat was tied, 
And all her listless crew 

Watched the gray alligator slide 
Into the still bavou. 



190 POEMS ON SLAVERY. 

Odours of orange-flowers, and spice, 
Reached them from time to time, 

Like airs that breathe from Paradise 
Upon a world of crime. 

The Planter, under his roof of thatch, 
Smoked thoughtfully and slow ; 

The Slaver's thumb was on the latch, 
He seemed in haste to go. 

He said, " My ship at anchor rides 

In yonder broad lagoon ; 
I only wait the evening tides, 

And the rising of the moon." 

Before them, with her face upraised, 

In timid attitude, 
Like one half curious, half amazed, 

A Quadroon maiden stood. 

Her eyes were large, and full of light, 
Her arms and neck were bare ; 

No garment she wore save a kirtle bright, 
And her own long, raven hair. 

And on her lips there played a smile 

As holy, meek, and faint, 
As lights in some cathedral aisle 

The features of a saint, 



THE QUADROON GIRL. 191 

" The soil is barren, — the farm is old;" 
The thoughtful Planter said ; 

Then looked upon the Slaver's gold, 
And then upon the maid. 

His heart within him was at strife 

With such accursed gains ; 
For he knew whose passions gave her life, 

Whose blood ran in her veins. 

But the voice of nature was too weak ; 

He took the glittering gold ! 
Then pale as death grew the maiden's cheek, 

Her hands as icy cold. 

The Slaver led her from the door, 

He led her by the hand, 
To be his slave and paramour 

In a strange and distant land ! 



THE WARNING. 

Beware ! The Israelite of old, who tore 

The lion in his path, — when, poor and blind, 

He saw the blessed light of heaven no more, 

Shorn of his noble strength and forced to grind 

In prison, and at last led forth to be 

A pander to Philistine revelry, — ■ 

Upon the pillars of the temple laid 

His desperate hands, and in its overthrow 

Destroyed himself, and with him those who made 
A cruel mockery of his sightless woe ; 

The poor, blind Slave, the scoff and jest of all, 

Expired, and thousands perished in the fall ! 

There is a poor, blind Samson in this land, 

Shorn of his strength, and bound in bonds of steej, 

Who may, in some grim revel, raise his hand, 
And shake the pillars of this Commonweal, 

Till the vast Temple of our liberties 

A shapeless mass of wreck and rubbish lies. 



BALLADS, SONGS, AND SONNETS. 




j;-^£. i : ^&fL 



BALLADS. 



THE SKELETON IN ARMOUR. 



The following Ballad was suggested to me while riding on the sea-shore 
at Newport. A year or two previous a skeleton had heen dug up at Fall 
River, clad in broken and corroded armour ; and the idea occurred to me of 
connecting it with the Round Tower at Newport, generally known hitherto 
as the old windmill, though now claimed by the Danes as a work of their 
early ancestors. Professor Rafn, in the Memoires de la Societe Boy ale des 
Antiquaires du Nbrd, for 1838-1839, says : — 

"There is no mistaking, in this instance, the style in which the more 
ancient stone edifices of the North were constructed, the style which belongs 
to the Roman or Ante-Gothic Architecture, and which, especially after the 
time of Charlemagne, diffused itself from Italy over the whole of the West 
and North of Europe, where it continued to predominate until the close of 
the twelfth century ; that style, which some authors have, from one of its 



196 



BALLADS. 



most striking characteristics, called the round arch style, the same which in 
England is denominated Saxon and sometimes Norman architecture. 

" On the ancient structure in Newport there are no ornaments remaining, 
which might possibly have served to guide us in assigning the probable date 
of its erection. That no vestige whatever is found of the pointed arch, nor 
any approximation to it, is indicative of an earlier rather than of a later 
period. From such characteristics as remain, however, we can scarcely form 
any other inference than one, in which I am persuaded that all, who are 
familiar with Old-Northern architecture, will concur, that this building 

WAS ERECTED AT A TERIOD DECIDEDLY NOT LATER THAN THE TWELFTH CEN- 
TURY. This remark applies, of course, to the original building only, and not 
to the alterations that it subsequently received ; for there are several such 
alterations in the upper part of the building which cannot be mistaken, and 
which were most likely occasioned by its being adapted "in modern times to 
various uses, for example as the substructure of a windmill, and latterly as 
a hay-magazine. To the same times may be referred the windows, the fire- 
place, and the apertures made above the columns. That this building could 
not have been erected for a windmill, is what an architect will easily 
discern." 

I will not enter into a discussion of the point. It is sufficiently well 
established for the purpose of a ballad ; though doubtless many an honest 
citizen of Newport, who has passed his days within sight of the Round 
Tower, will be ready to exclaim with Sancho : " God bless me ! did I not 
warn you to have a care of what you were doing, for that it was nothing but 
a windmill ; and nobody could mistake it but one who had the like in his 
head." 




" Speak ! speak ! thou fearful guest ! 
Who, with thy hollow breast 
Still in rude armour drest, 

Comest to daunt me ! 
Wrapt not in Eastern balms, 
But with thy fleshless palms 
Stretched, as if asking- alms, 

Why dost thou haunt me ? " 



AMr-'-./ ~m- 




" I wooed the blue-eyed maid, 
Yielding, yet half afraid, 
And in the forest's shade 

Our vows were plighted. 
Under its loosened vest 
Fluttered her little breast, 
Like birds within their nest 

By the hawk frighted. 



" Bright in her father's hall 
Shields gleamed upon the wall. 
Loud sang the minstrels all, 
Chaunting his glory ; 



THE SKELETON IN AKMOUR. 201 

When of old Hildebrand 
I asked his daughter's hand, 
Mute did the minstrels stand 
To hear my story. 

" While the brown ale he quaffed, 
Loud then the champion laughed, 
And as the wind-gusts waft 

The sea-foam brightly, 
So the loud laugh of scorn, 
Out of those lips unshorn, 
From the deep drinking-horn 

Blew the foam lightly. 

" She was a Prince's child, 

I but a Viking wild, 

And though she blushed and smiled, 

I was discarded ! 
Should not the dove so white 
Follow the sea-mew's flight, 
Why did they leave that night 

Her nest unguarded ? 

" Scarce had I put to sea, 
Bearing the maid with me, — 
Fairest of all was she 

Among the Norsemen !-— 
When on the white sea- strand, 
Waving his armed hand, 
Saw we old Hildebrand, 

With twenty horsemen. 



TV*-. 




" I wooed the blue-eyed maid, 
Yielding, yet half afraid, 
And in the forest's shade 

Our vows were plighted. 
Under its loosened vest 
Fluttered her little breast, 
Like birds within their nest 

By the hawk frighted. 



" Bright in her father's hall 
Shields gleamed upon the wall. 
Loud sang the minstrels all, 
Chaunting his glory; 



THE SKELETON IN AHMOUR. 201 

When of old Hildebrand 
I asked his daughter's hand, 
Mute did the minstrels stand 
To hear my story. 

" While the brown ale he quaffed, 
Loud then the champion laughed, 
And as the wind-gusts waft 

The sea-foam brightly, 
So the loud laugh of scorn, 
Out of those lips unshorn, 
From the deep drinking-horn 

Blew the foam lightly. 

" She was a Prince's child, 

I but a Viking wild, 

And though she blushed and smiled, 

I was discarded ! 
Should not the dove so white 
Follow the sea-mew's flight, 
Why did they leave that night 

Her nest unguarded ? 

" Scarce had I put to sea, 
Bearing" the maid with me, — 
Fairest of all was she 

Among the Norsemen !— 
When on the white sea- strand, 
Waving his armed hand, 
Saw we old Hildebrand, 

With twenty horsemen. 



202 BALLADS. 

" Then launched they to the blast, 
Bent like a reed each mast, 
Yet we were gaining fast, 

When the wind failed us ; 
And with a sudden flaw 
Came round the gusty Skaw, 
So that our foe we saw 

Laugh as he hailed us. 

"And as to catch the gale 
Round veered the flapping sail, 
Death ! was the helmsman's hail, 

Death without quarter ! 
Mid-ships with iron keel 
Struck we her ribs of steel ; 
Down her black hulk did reel 

Through the black water ! 

" As with his wings aslant, 
Sails the fierce cormorant, 
Seeking some rocky haunt, 

With his prey laden, 
So toward the open main, 
Beating to sea again, 
Through the wild hurricane, 

Bore I the maiden. 

" Three weeks we westward bore, 
And when the storm was o'er, 
Cloud-like we saw the shore 
Stretching to leeward ; 



THE SKELETON IN ARMOUR. 203 

There for my lady's bower 
Built I the lofty tower, 
Which, to this very hour, 
Stands looking seaward. 

" There lived we many years ; 
Time dried the maiden's tears ; 
She had forgot her fears, 

She was a mother ; 
Death closed her mild blue eyes, 
Under that tower she lies ; 
Ne'er shall the sun arise 

On such another. 

" Still grew my bosom then, 
Still as a stagnant fen ! 
Hateful to me were men, 

The sun-light hateful ! 
In the vast forest here, 
Clad in my warlike gear, 
Fell I upon my spear, 

O, death was grateful ! 

" Thus, seamed with many scars, 
Bursting these prison bars, 
Up to its native stars 

My soul ascended ! 
There from the flowing bowl 
Deep drinks the warrior's soul, 
Skoal! to the Northland ! shoal!" * 

— Thus the tale ended. 

• In Scandanavia this is the customary salutation when drinking a health. I have slightly changed 
the orthography of the word, in order to preserve the correct pronunciation. 




THE WRECK OF THE HESPERUS. 

It was the schooner Hesperus, 

That sailed the wintry sea ; 
And the skipper had taken his little daughter 

To bear him company. 



Blue were her eyes as the fairy flax, 
Her cheeks like the dawn of day, 

And her bosom white as the hawthorn buds, 
That ope in the month of May. 



THE WRECK OF THE HESTERUS. 20 

The skipper he stood beside the helm, 

His pipe was in his mouth, 
And he watched how the veering- flaw did blow 

The smoke now West, now South. 

Then up and spake an old Sailor, 

Had sailed the Spanish Main, 
" I pray thee, put into yonder port, 

For I fear a hurricane. 

" Last night, the moon had a golden ring, 

And to-night no moon we see !" 
The skipper, he blew a whiff from his pipe, 

And a scornful laugh laughed lie. 

Colder and louder blew the wind, 

A gale from the Northeast ; 
The snow fell hissing in the brine, 

And the billows frothed like yeast. 

Down came the storm, and smote amain, 

The vessel in its strength ; 
She shuddered and paused, like a frighted steed, 

Then leaped her cable's length. 

" Come hither! come hither! my little daug-hter, 

And do not tremble so ; 
For I can weather the roughest gale, 

That ever wind did blow." 

13 H 



206 BALLADS. 

He wrapped her warm in his seaman's coat 

Against the stinging blast ; 
He cut a rope from a broken spar, 

And bound her to the mast. 

" O father! I hear the church-bells ring, 

O say, what may it be ? " 
" 'lis a fog-bell on a rock-bound coast ! " — 

And he steered for the open sea. 

" O father ! I hear the sound of guns, 

O say, what may it be ? " 
" Some ship in distress, that cannot live 

In such an angry sea ! " 

" O father! I see a gleaming light, 

O say, what may it be ? " 
But the father answered never a word, 

A frozen corpse was he. 

Lashed to the helm, all stiff and stark, 
With his face turned to the skies, 

The lantern gleamed through the gleaming snow 
On his fixed and glassy eyes. 

Then the maiden clasped her hands and prayed 

That saved she might be ; 
And she thought of Christ, who stilled the wave, 

On the Lake of Galilee. 



THE WRECK OF THE HESPERUS. 207 

And fast through the midnight dark and drear, 
Through the whistling sleet and snow, 

Like a sheeted ghost, the vessel swept 
Towards the reef of Norman's Woe. 

And ever the fitful gusts between 

A sound came from the land ; 
It was the sound of the trampling surf, 

On the rocks and the hard sea-sand. 

The breakers were right beneath her bows, 

She drifted a dreary wreck, 
And a whooping billow swept the crew 

Like icicles from her deck. 

She struck where the white and fleecy waves 

Looked soft as carded wool, 
But the cruel rocks, they gored her side 

Like the horns of an angry bull. 

Her rattling shrouds, all sheathed in ice, 
With the masts, went by the board ; 

Like a vessel of glass, she stove and sank, 
Ho ! ho ! the breakers roared ! 

At daybreak, on the bleak sea-beach, 

A fisherman stood aghast, 
To see the form of a maiden fair, 

Lashed close to a drifting mast. 



208 



BALLADS. 



The salt sea was frozen on her breast, 

The salt tears in her eyes ; 
And he saw her hair, like the brown sea- weed, 

On the billows fall and rise. 

Such was the wreck of the Hesperus, 
In the midnight and the snow ! 

Christ save us all from a death like this, 
On the reef of Norman's Woe ! 




-^r* 




SONGS. 



SEAWEED. 



When descends on the Atlantic 

The gigantic 
Storm-wind of the equinox, 
Landward in his wrath he scourges 

The toiling surges, 
Laden with seaweed from the rocks : 



210 SONGS. 

From Bermuda's reefs; from edges 

Of sunken ledges, 
In some far-off, bright Azore ; 
From Bahama, and the dashing, 

Silver-flashing 
Surges of San Salvador ; 

From the tumbling surf, that buries 
The Orkney an skerries, 

Answering the hoarse Hebrides ; 

And from wrecks of ships, and drifting 
Spars, uplifting 

On the desolate, rainy seas ; — 

Ever drifting, drifting, drifting 

On the shifting 
Currents of the restless main ; 
Till in sheltered coves, and reaches 

Of sandy beaches, 
All have found repose again. 

So when storms of wild emotion 

Strike the ocean 
Of the poet's soul, ere long 
From each cave and rocky fastness, 

In its vastness, 
Floats some fragment of a song : 

From the far-off isles enchanted, 

Heaven has planted 
With the golden fruit of Truth ; 



THE DAY IS DONE. 211 

From the flashing surf, whose vision 

Gleams Elysian 
In the tropic clime of Youth ; 

From the strong Will, and the Endeavour 

That forever 
Wrestles with the tides of Fate ; 
From the wreck of Hopes far-scattered, 

Tempest-shattered, 
Floating waste and desolate; — 

Ever drifting, drifting, drifting 

On the shifting 
Currents of the restless heart ; 
Till at length in hooks recorded, 

They, like hoarded 
Household words, no more depart. 



THE DAY IS DONE. 

The day is done, and the darkness 
Falls from the wings of Night, 

As a feather is wafted downward 
From an eagle in his flight. 

I see the lights of the village 

Gleam through the rain and the mist, 
And a feeling of sadness comes o'er me, 

That my soul cannot resist : 



212 SONGS. 

A feeling of sadness and longing, 
That is not akin to pain, 

And resembles sorrow only 

As the mist resembles the rain. 

Come, read to me some poem, 

Some simple and heartfelt lay, 

That shall soothe this restless feeling, 
And banish the thoughts of day. 



Not from the grand old masters, 
Not from the bards sublime, 

Whose distant footsteps echo 

Through the corridors of Time. 

For, like strains of martial music, 
Their mighty thoughts suggest 

Life's endless toil and endeavour ; 
And to-night I long for rest. 

Read from some humbler poet, 

Whose songs gushed from his heart, 

As showers from the clouds of summer, 
Or tears from the eyelids start ; 

Who, through long days of labour, 
And nights devoid of ease, 

Still heard in his soul the music 
Of wonderful melodies. 






AFTERNOON IN FEBRUARY. 81; 

Such songs have power to quiet 

The restless pulse of care, 
And come like the benediction 

That follows after prayer. 

Then read from the treasured volume 

The poem of thy choice, 
And lend to the rhyme of the poet 

The beauty of thy voice. 

And the night shall be filled with music, 
And the cares, that infest the day, 

Shall fold their tents, like the Arabs, 
And as silently steal away. 



AFTERNOON IN FEBRUARY. 

The day is ending, 
The night is descending ; 
The marsh is frozen, 
The river dead. 

Through clouds like ashes, 
The red sun flashes 
On village windows 
That glimmer red. 



c c 



214 SONGS. 

The snow recommences ; 
The buried fences 
Mark no longer 

The road o'er the plain ; 

While through the meadows, 
Like fearful shadows, 
Slowly passes 

A funeral train. 



The bell is pealing, 
And every feeling 
Within me responds 

To the dismal knell ; 

Shadows are trailing, 
My heart is bewailing, 
And tolling within 

Like a funeral bell. 



TO AN OLD DANISH SONG-BOOK. 

Welcome, my old friend, 
Welcome to a foreign fireside, 
While the sullen gales of autumn 
Shake the windows. 



TO AN OLD DANISH SONG BOOK. 215 

The ungrateful world 
Has. it seems, dealt harshly with thee, 
Since, beneath the skies of Denmark, 
First I met thee. 

There are marks of age, 
There are thumb-marks on thy margin, 
Made by hands that clasped thee rudely, 
At the ale-house. 

Soiled and dull thou art ; 
Yellow are thy time-worn pages, 
As the russet, rain-molested 
Leaves of autumn. 



Thou art stained with wine 
Scattered from hilarious goblets, 
As these leaves with the libations 
Of Olympus. 

Yet dost thou recall 
Days departed, half-forgotten, 
When in dreamy youth I wandered 
By the Baltic — 

When I paused to hear 
The old ballad of King Christian 
Shouted from suburban taverns 
In the twilight. 



216 SONGS. 

Thou recallest bards, 

Who, in solitary chambers, 

And with hearts by passion wasted, 

Wrote thy pages. 

Thou recallest homes 
Where thy songs of love and friendship 
Made the gloomy Northern winter 
Bright as summer. 

Once some ancient Scald, 
In his bleak, ancestral Iceland, 
Chanted staves of these old ballads 
To the Vikings. 



Once in Elsinore, 
At the court of old King Hamlet, 
Yorick and his boon companions 
San <z these ditties. 



Once Prince Frederick's Guard 
Sang them in their smoky barracks ; 
Suddenly the English cannon 
Joined the chorus ! 

Peasants in the field, 
Sailors on the roaring ocean, 
Students, tradesman, pale mechanics, 
All have sung- them. 



TO AN OLD DANISH SONG-BOOK. 



217 




Thou hast been their friend ; 
They, alas ! have left thee friendless ! 
Yet at least by one warm fireside 
Art thou welcome. 

And, as swallows build 
In these wide, old-fashioned chimneys, 
So thy twittering songs shall nestle 
In my bosom, — 



Quiet close and warm, 
Sheltered from all molestation, 
And recalling by their voices 
Youth and travel. 



WALTER YON DER VOGELWEIDE. 

Vogelweide the Minnesinger, 

When he left this world of ours, 

Laid his body in the cloister, 

Under Wurtzburg's minster towers. 

And he gave the monks his treasures, 
Gave them all with this behest : 

They should feed the birds at noontide 
Daily on his place of rest ; 

Saying, " From these wandering minstrels 
I have learned the art of song; 

Let me now repay the lessons 

They have taught so well and long."' 

Thus the bard of love departed ; 

And, fulfilling his desire, 
On his tomb the birds were feasted 

By the children of the choir. 

Day by day, o'er tower and turret, 
In foul weather and in fair, 

Day by day, in vaster numbers, 
Flocked the poets of the air. 



WALTER VOX DER VOGF.LWEIDE. 



219 



On the tree whose heavy branches 
Overshadowed all the place, 

On the pavement, on the tombstone, 
On the poet's sculptured face, 




On the cross-bars of each window, 
On the lintel of each door, 

They renewed the War of Wart burg, 
Which the bard had fought before. 



220 SONGS. 

There they sang their merry carols, 
Sang their lauds on every side ; 

And the name their voices uttered 
Was the name of Vogehveide. 

Till at length the portly abbot 

Murmured, "Why this waste of food? 
Be it changed to loaves henceforward 

For our fasting brotherhood." 

Then in vain o'er tower and turret, 

From the walls and woodland nests, 

When the minster bells rang noontide, 
Gathered the unwelcome guests. 

Then in vain, with cries discordant, 

Clamorous round the Gothic spire, 

Screamed the feathered Minnesingers 
For the children of the choir. 



Time has long effaced the inscriptions 
On the cloister's funeral stones, 

And tradition only tells us 

Where repose the poet's bones. 

But around the vast cathedral, 
By sweet echoes multiplied, 



Still the birds repeat the legend, 
And the name of Vogehveide. 







DRINKING SONG. 

INSCRIPTION FOR AN ANT10.UE PITCHER. 

Come, old friend ! sit down and listen ! 

From the pitcher, placed between us, 
How the waters laugh and glisten 

In the head of old Silenus ! 

Old Silenus, bloated, drunken, 
Led by his inebriate Satyrs ; 

On his breast his head is sunken, 
Vacantly he leers and chatters. 



Fauns with youthful Bacchus follow 
Ivy crowns that brow supernal 

As the forehead of Apollo, 

And possessing youth eternal. 



D D 



222 SONGS, 

Round about him, fair Bacchantes, 

Bearing cymbals, flutes, and thyrses, 

Wild from Naxian groves, or Zante's 
Vineyards, sing delirious verses. 

Thus he won, through all the nations, 
Bloodless victories, and the farmer 

Bore, as trophies and oblations, 

Vines for banners, ploughs for armour. 

Judged by no o'erzealous rigour, 

Much this mystic throng expresses : 

Bacchus was the type of vigour, 
And Silenus of excesses. 

These are ancient ethnic revels, 

Of a faith long since forsaken ; 

Now the Satyrs, changed to devils, 
Frighten mortals wine-o'ertaken. 

Now to rivulets from the mountains 
Point the rods of fortune-tellers ; 

Youth perpetual dwells in fountains,-— 
Not in flasks, and casks, and cellars. 

Claudius, though he sang of flagons 

And huge tankards filled with Rhenish, 

From that fiery blood of dragons 
Never would his own replenish. 



THE OLD CLOCK ON THE STAIRS. 223 

Even Redi, though he chaunted 

Bacchus in the Tuscan valleys, 
Never drank the wine he vaunted 

In his dithyrambic sallies. 

Then with water fill the pitcher 

Wreathed about with classic fables ; 
Ne'er Falernian threw a richer 

Light upon Lucullus' tables. 

Come, old friend, sit down and listen ! 

As it passes thus between us, 
How its wavelets laugh and glisten 

In the head of old Silenus ! 



THE OLD CLOCK ON THE STAIES. 

L'eternite est une pendule, dont le balancier dit et redit sans cesse ces deux mots 
seulement, dans le silence des tombeaux : " Toujours ! jamais ! Jamais ! toujours ! " 

JACOUES BRIDAINE. 

Somewhat back from the village street 

Stands the old-fashioned country-seat. 

Across its antique portico 

Tall poplar trees their shadows throw ; 

And from its station in the hall 

An ancient timepiece says to all, — 

" Forever — never ! 

Never — forever ! " 



224 SONGS. 

Halfway up the stairs it stands, 

And points and beckons with its hands 

From its case of massive oak, 

Like a monk, who, under his cloak, 

Crosses himself, and sighs, alas ! 

With sorrowful voice to all who pass, — 

" Forever — never ! 

Never — forever ! " 

By day its voice is low and light ; 

But in the silent dead of night, 

Distinct as a passing footstep's fall, 

It echoes along the vacant hall, 

Along the ceiling, along the floor, 

And seems to say, at each chamber door, — 

" Forever — never ! 

Never — forever ! " 

Through days of sorrow and of mirth, 
Through days of death and days of birth, 
Through every swift vicissitude 
Of changeful time, unchanged it has stood, 
And as if, like God, it all things saw, 
It calmly repeats those words of awe, — 

" Forever — never ! 

Never — forever ! " 

In that mansion used to be 
Free-hearted Hospitality ; 



THE OLD CLOCK ON THE STAIRS. 



225 



His great fires up the chimney roared ; 
The stranger feasted at his board; 
But, like the skeleton at the feast, 
That warning timepiece never ceased, — 

" Forever — never ! 

Never — forever ! " 




There groups of merry children played, 
There youths and maidens dreaming strayed 



226 SONGS. 

O precious hours ! golden prime ! 
And affluence of love and time ! 
Even as a miser counts his gold, 
Those hours the ancient timepiece told, — 

" Forever — never ! 

Never — -forever ! " 

From that chamber, clothed in white, 
The bride came forth on her wedding night 
There, in that silent room below, 
The dead lay in his shroud of snow ; 
And in the hush that followed the prayer, 
Was heard the old clock on the stair, — 

" Forever — never ! 

Never — forever ! " 



All are scattered now and fled, 
Some are married, some are dead ; 
And when I ask, with throbs of pain, 
" Ah ! when shall they all meet again ? 
As in the days long since gone by, 
The ancient timepiece makes reply, — 

" Forever — never ! 

Never — forever ! " 



Never here, forever there, 
Where all parting, pain, and care, 
And death, and time shall disappear,- 
Forever there, but never here ! 



THE ARROW AND THE SONG. 227 

The horologe of Eternity 
Sayeth this incessantly, — 

" Forever — never ! " 

Never — forever ! " 



THE ABEOW AND THE SONG. 

I shot an arrow into the air, 
It fell to earth, I knew not where ; 
For, so swiftly it flew, the sight 
Could not follow it in its flight. 

I breathed a song into the air, 
It fell to earth, I knew not where ; 
For who has sight so keen and strong, 
That it can follow the flight of song ? 

Long, long afterward, in an oak 
I found the arrow, still unbroke ; 
And the song, from beginning to end, 
I found again in the heart of a friend. 



i 



sit 



m 




SONNETS. 



AUTUMN. 



Thou comest, Autumn, heralded by the rain, 
With banners, by great gales incessant fanned, 
Brighter than brightest silks of Samarcand, 
And stately oxen harnessed to thy wain ! 



THE EVENING STAR. 229 

Thou standest, like imperial Charlemagne, 
Upon thy bridge of gold ; thy royal hand 
Outstretched with benedictions o'er the land, 
Blessing the farms through all thy vast domain ! 
Thy shield is the red harvest moon, suspended 
So long beneath the heaven's o'erhanging eaves, 
Thy steps are by the farmer's prayers attended ; 
Like flames upon an altar shine the sheaves ; 
And, following thee, in thy ovation splendid, 
Thine almoner, the wind, scatters the golden leaves! 



THE EVENING STAR. 

Lo ! in the painted oriel of the West, 

Whose panes the sunken sun incarnadines, 

Like a fair lady at her casement, shines 

The evening star, the star of love and rest ! 

And then anon she doth herself divest 

Of all her radiant garments, and reclines 

Behind the sombre screen of yonder pines, 

With slumber and soft dreams of love oppressed. 

O my beloved, my sweet Hesperus ! 

My morning and my evening star of love ! 

My best and gentlest lady ! even thus, 

As that fair planet in the sky above, 

Dost thou retire unto thy rest at night, 

And from thy darkened window fades the light. 

E E 



DANTE. 

Tuscan, that wanderest through the realms of gloom, 

With thoughtful pace, and sad, majestic eyes, 

Stern thoughts and awful from thy soul arise, 

Like Farinata from his fiery tomb. 

Thy sacred song is like the trump of doom ; 

Yet in thy heart what human sympathies, 

AVhat soft compassion glows, as in the skies 

The tender stars their clouded lamps relume ! 

Methinks I see thee stand, with pallid cheeks. 

By Fra Hilario in his diocese, 

As up the convent wails, in golden streaks, 

The ascending sunbeams mark the day's decrease; 

And, as he asks what there the stranger seeks, 

Thy voice along the cloister whispers, " Peace ! " 



si 




BiNTE FROM THE FRESCO BY GIOTTO 



EARLIER POEMS. 



These poems were written, for the most part, during my college . life, 
and all of them before the age of nineteen. Some have found their way 
into schools, and seem to be successful. Others lead a vagabond and pre- 
carious existence in the corners of newspapers ; or have changed their names, 
and run away to seek their fortunes beyond the sea. I say with the Bishop 
of Avranches, on a similar occasion: "I cannot be displeased to see these 
children of mine, which I have neglected, and almost exposed, brought from 
their wanderings in lanes and alleys, and safely lodged, in order to go forth 
into the world together in a more decorous garb." 




AN APRIL DAY. 



When the warm sun, that brings 
Seed-time and harvest, has returned again, 
Tis sweet to visit the still wood, where springs 

The first flower of the plain. 



234 EARLIER POEMS. 

I love the season well, 
When forest glades are teeming with bright forms, 
Nor dark and many-folded clouds foretell 

The coming-on of storms. 

From the earth's loosened mould 
The sapling draws its sustenance, and thrives ; 
Though stricken to the heart with winter's cold, 

The drooping tree revives. 

The softly warbled song 
Comes from the pleasant woods, and coloured wings 
Glance quick in the bright sun, that moves along 

The forest openings. 

When the bright sunset fills 
The silver woods with light, the green slope throws 
Its shadows in the hollows of the hills, 

And wide the upland glows. 

And, when the eve is born, 
In the blue lake the sky, o'er-reaching far, 
Is hollowed out, and the moon dips her horn 

And twinkles many a star. 

Inverted in the tide, 
Stand the gray rocks, and trembling shadows throw, 
And the fair trees look over, side by side, 

And sec themselves below. 



AUTUMN. • 235 

Sweet April! — many a thought 
Is wedded unto thee, as hearts are wed ; 
Nor shall they fail, till, to its autumn brought, 

Life's golden fruit is shed. 




AUTUMN, 



With what a glory comes and goes the year ! 
The buds of spring, those beautiful harbingers 
Of sunny skies and cloudless times, enjoy 
Life's newness, and earth's garniture spread out 



236 EAJRLIEE, POEMS. 

And when the silver habit of the clouds 
Comes down upon the autumn sun, and with 
A sober gladness the old year takes up 
His bright inheritance of golden fruits, 
A pomp and pageant fill the splendid scene. 

There is a beautiful spirit breathing now 
Its mellow richness on the clustered trees, 
And, from a beaker full of richest dyes, 
Pouring new glory on the autumn woods, 
And dipping in warm light the pillared clouds. 
Morn on the mountain, like a summer bird, 
Lifts up her purple wing, and in the vales 
The gentle wind, a sweet and passionate wooer, 
Kisses the blushing leaf, and stirs up life 
Within the solemn woods of ash deep-crimsoned, 
And silver beech, and maple yellow-leaved, 
Where autumn, like a faint old man, sits down 
By the wayside a-weary. Through the trees 
The golden robin moves. The purple finch, 
That on wild cherry and red cedar feeds, 
A winter bird, comes with its plaintive whistle, 
And pecks by the witch-hazel, whilst aloud 
From cottage roofs the warbling blue-bird sings, 
And merrily, with oft-repeated stroke, 
Sounds from the threshing-floor the busy flail. 

O what a glory doth this world put on 
For him who, with a fervent heart, goes forth 
Under the bright and glorious sky, and looks 
On duties well performed, and days well spent ! 



WOODS IN WINTER. 237 

For him the wind, ay, and the yellow leaves 
Shall have a voice, and give him eloquent teachings. 
He shall so hear the solemn hymn, that Death 
Has lifted up for all, that he shall go 
To his long resting-place without a tear. 



WOODS IN WINTER. 

When winter winds are piercing chill, 

And through the hawthorn blows the gale, 

With solemn feet I tread the hill, 
That overbrows the lonely vale. 

O'er the bare upland, and away 

Through the long reach of desert woods, 
The embracing sunbeams chastely play, 

And gladden these deep solitudes. 

Where twisted round the barren oak, 
The summer vine in beauty clung, 

And summer winds the stillness broke, 
The crystal icicle is hung. 

Where, from their frozen urns mute springs 

Pour out the river's gradual tide, 

Shrilly the skater's iron rings, 

And voices fill the woodland side. 

F F 



238 



EARLIER POEMS. 




Alas ! how changed from the fair scene, 
When birds sang out their mellow lay, 

And winds were soft, and woods were green, 
And the song ceased not with the day. 



Bat still wild music is abroad, 

Pale, desert woods ! within your crowd ; 
And gathering winds, in hoarse accord, 

Amid the vocal reeds pipe loud. 



HYMN OF THE MORAVIAN NUNS OF BETHLEHEM. 239 

Chill airs and wintry winds ! my ear 

Has grown familiar with your song; 

I hear it in the opening year, — 
I listen and it cheers me long-. 



HYMN OF THE MORAVIAN NUNS OF BETHLEHEM, 

AT THE CONSECRATION OF PULASKl'S BANNER. 

When the dying flame of day 

Through the chancel shot its ray, 

Far the glimmering tapers shed 

Faint light on the cowled head ; 

And the censer burning swung, 

Where, before the altar, hung 

The blood-red banner, that with prayer 

Had been consecrated there. 
And the nun's sw T eet hymn was heard the while, 
Sung low in the dim, mysterious aisle. 

" Take thy banner ! May it wave 
Froudly o'er the good and brave ; 
When the battle's distant wail 
Breaks the sabbath of our vale, 
When the clarion's music thrills 
To the hearts of these lone hills, 
When the spear in conflict shakes, 
And the strong lance shivering breaks. 



240 EARLIER POEMS. 

" Take thy banner ! and, beneath 
The battle-cloud's encircling wreath, 
Guard it ! — till our homes are free ! 
Guard it ! — God will prosper thee ! 
In the dark and trying hour, 
In the breaking forth of power, 
In the rush of steeds and men, 
His right hand will shield thee then. 

" Take thy banner ! But, when night 

Closes round the ghastly fight, 

If the vanquished warrior bow, 

Spare him ! — By our holy vow, 

By our prayers and many tears, 

By the mercy that endears, 

Spare him ! — he our love hath shared ! 

Spare him ! — as thou wouldst be spared ! 

" Take thy banner ! — and if e'er 
Thou shouldst press the soldier's bier, 
And the muffled drum should beat 
To the tread of mournful feet, 
Then this crimson flag shall be 
Martial cloak and shroud for thee." 

The warrior took that banner proud, 
And it was his martial cloak and shroud ! 



SUNEISE ON THE HILLS. 

I stood upon the hills, when heaven's wide arch 

Was glorious with the sun's returning march, 

And woods were brightened, and soft gales 

Went forth to kiss the sun-clad vales. 

The clouds were far beneath me ; — bathed in light, 

They gathered midway round the wooded height, 

And, in their fading glory, shone 

Like hosts in battle overthrown, 

As many a pinnacle, with shifting glance, 

Through the gray mist thrust up its shattered lance 

And rocking on the cliff was left 

The dark pine blasted, bare, and cleft. 

The veil of cloud was lifted, and below 

Glowed the rich valley, and the river's flow 

Was darkened by the forest's shade, 

Or glistened in the white cascade ; 

Where upward, in the mellow blush of day 

The noisy bittern wheeled his spiral way. 

I heard the distant waters dash, 
I saw the current whirl and flash, — 
And richly, by the blue lake's silver beach, 
The woods were bending with a silent reach. 
Then o'er the vale, with gentle swell, 
The music of the village bell 
Came sweetly to the echo-giving hills ; 
And the wild horn, whose voice the woodland fills, 






242 



EARLIER POEMS. 



Was ringing to the merry shout, 

That faint and far the glen sent out, 

Where, answering to the sudden shot, thin smoke, 

Through thick-leaved branches, from the dingle broke. 




If thou art worn and hard beset 
With sorrows that thou wouldst forget, 
If thou wouldst read a lesson, that will keep 
Thy heart from fainting and thy soul from sleep, 
Go to the woods and hills ! — No tears 
Dim the sweet look that Nature wears. 



THE SPIRIT OF POETKY. 



There is a quiet spirit in these woods, 
That dwells where'er the gentle south wind blows 
Where, underneath the white-thorn, in the glade, 
The wild flowers bloom, or, kissing the soft air, 
The leaves above their sunny palms outspread. 
With what a tender and impassioned voice 
It fills the nice and delicate ear of thought, 
When the fast-ushering star of morning comes 
O'er-riding the gray hills with golden scarf ; 
Or when the cowled and dusky-sandaled Eve, 
In mourning weeds, from out the western gate, 
Departs with silent pace ! That spirit moves 
In the green valley, where the silver brook, 
From its full laver, pours the white cascade ; 
And, babbling low amid the tangled woods, 








244 EARLIER POEMS. 

Slips down through moss-grown stones with endless laughter. 

And frequent, on the everlasting hills, 

Its feet go forth, when it doth wrap itself 

In all the dark embroidery of the storm, 

And shouts the stern, strong wind. And here, amid 

The silent majesty of these deep woods, 

Its presence shall uplift thy thoughts from earth, 

As to the sunshine and the pure, bright air 

Their tops the green trees lift. Hence gifted bards 

Have ever loved the calm and quiet shades. 

For them there was an eloquent voice in all 

The sylvan pomp of woods, the golden sun, 

The flowers, the leaves, the river on its way, 

Blue skies, and silver clouds, and gentle winds, — 

The swelling upland, where the sidelong sun 

Aslant the wooded slope, at evening, goes, — 

Groves, through whose broken roof the sky looks in, 

Mountain, and shattered cliff, and sunny vale, 

The distant lake, fountains, — and mighty trees, 

In many a lazy syllable, repeating 

Their old poetic legends to the wind. 

And this is the sweet spirit, that doth fill 
The world ; and, in these wayward days of youth, 
My busy fancy oft embodies it, 
As a bright image of the light and beauty 
That dwell in nature, — of the heavenly forms 
We worship in our dreams, and the soft hues 
That stain the wild bird's wing, and flush the clouds 
When the sun sets. Within her eye 



BURIAL OF THE MINNISINK. 245 

The heaven of April, with its changing light, 

And when it wears the blue of May, is hung, 

And oh her lip the rich, red rose. Her hair 

Is like the summer tresses of the trees, 

When twilight makes them brown, and on her cheek 

Blushes the richness of an autumn sky, 

With ever-shifting beauty. Then her breath, ■ 

It is so like the gentle air of Spring, 

As, from the morning's dewy flowers, it comes 

Full of .their fragrance, that it is a joy 

To have it round us, — and her silver voice 

Is the rich music of a summer bird, 

Heard in the still night, with its passionate cadence. 



BURIAL OF THE MINNISINK. 

On sunny slope and beachen swell, 
The shadowed light of evening fell ; 
And, where the maple's leaf was brown, 
With soft and silent lapse came down 
The glory, that the wood receives, 
At sunset, in its brazen leaves. 

Far upward in the mellow light 

Rose the blue hills. One cloud of white, 

Around a far uplifted cone, 

In the warm blush of evening shone ; 



GG 



2i<] 



EARLIER POEMS. 



An image of the silver lakes, 

By which the Indian's soul awakes. 










But soon a funeral hymn was heard 
Where the soft breath of evening stirred 
The tall, gray forest ; and a band 
Of stern in heart, and strong in hand, 



BURIAL OF THE MINNISINK. 241 

Came winding down beside the wave, 
To lay the red chief in his grave. 

They sang, that by his native bowers 
He stood, in the last moon of flowers, 
And thirty snows had not yet shed 
Their glory on the warrior's head ; 
But, as the summer fruit decays, 
So died he in those naked days. 

A dark cloak of the roebuck's skin 
Covered the warrior, and within 
Its heavy folds the weapons, made 
For the hard toils of war, were laid ; 
The cuirass, woven of plaited reeds, 
And the broad belt of shells and beads. 

Before, a dark-haired virgin train 
Chanted the death dirge of the slain ; 
Behind, the long procession came 
Of hoary men and chiefs of fame, 
With heavy hearts, and eyes of grief, 
Leading the war-horse of their chief. 

Stripped of his proud and martial dress, 
Uncurbed, unreined, and riderless, 
With darting eye and nostril spread, 
And heavy and impatient tread, 






248 



EARLIER POEMS. 



He came ; and oft that eye so proud 
Asked for his rider in the crowd. 

They buried the dark chief ; they freed 
Beside the grave his battle steed ; 
And swift an arrow cleaved its way 
To his stern heart ! One piercing- neigh 
Arose, — and, on the dead man's plain, 
The rider grasps his steed again. 




MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 




THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH. 



Under a spreading chestnut tree 
The village smithy stands; 

The smith, a mighty man is he, 
With large and sinewy hands ; 

And the muscles of his brawny arms 
Are strong- as iron bands. 



252 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

His hair is crisp, and black, and long, 

His face is like the tan ; 
His brow is wet with honest sweat, 

He earns whate'er he can, 
And looks the w 7 hole world in the face, 

For he owes not any man. 

Week in, week out, from morn till night, 
You can hear his bellows blow ; 

You can hear him swing his heavy sledge, 
With measured beat and slow, 

Like a sexton ringing the village bell, 
When the evening sun is low. 

And children coming home from school 

Look in at the open door ; 
They love to see the flaming forge, 

And hear the bellows roar, 
And catch the burning sparks that fly 

Like chaff from a threshing floor. 

He goes on Sunday to the church, 

And sits among his boys ; 
He hears the parson pray and preach, 

He hears his daughter's voice 
Singing in the village choir, 

And it makes his heart rejoice. 

It sounds to him like her mother's voice, 
Singing in Paradise ! 



THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH. 



253 



He needs must think of her once more, 

How in the grave she lies ; 
And with his hard, rough hand he wipes 

A tear out of his eyes. 

Toiling, — rejoicing, — sorrowing, 
Onward through life he goes ; 

Each morning sees some task begin, 
Each evening sees it close ; 

Something attempted, something done, 
Has earned a night's repose. 

Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend, 
For the lesson thou hast taught ! 

Thus at the naming forge of life 

Our fortunes must be wrought ; 

Thus on its sounding anvil shaped 
Each burning deed and thought ! 







II II 



2. r )4 • MISCELLANEOUS I'OEMS. 




ENDYMION. 



The rising moon has hid the stars ; 

Her level rays, like golden bars, 

Lie on the landscape green, 
With shadows brown between. 



ENDYMION. 255 

And silver white the river gleams. 

As if Diana in her dreams, 

Had dropt her silver bow 
Upon the meadows low. 

On such a tranquil night as this, 
She woke Endj-mion with a kiss, 

When, sleeping in the grove 
He dreamed not of her love. 

Like Dian's kiss, unasked, unsought, 
Love gives itself, but is not bought ; 
Nor voice, nor sound betrays 
Its deep, impassioned gaze. 

It comes, — the beautiful, the free, 

The crown of all humanity, — 
In silence and alone 
To seek the elected one. 

It lifts the boughs, whose shadows deep, 
Are Life's oblivion, the soul's sleep, 
And kisses the closed eyes 
Of him, who slumbering lies. 

O, weary hearts ! O, slumbering eyes ! 

(), drooping souls, whose destinies 

Arc fraught with fear and pain, 
Yc shall be loved a^ain ! 



356 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



No one is so accursed by fate, 
No one so utterly desolate, 

But some heart, though unknown, 

Responds unto his own. 

Responds,- — as if with unseen wings, 
An angel touched its quivering strings ; 
And whispers, in its song, 
"Where hast thou stayed so long ? " 



^ 




THE TWO LOCKS OF HAIR. 

FHOM TFIE GERMAN OF PFJZKR. 

A youth, light-hearted and content, 
I wander through the world ; 

Here, Arab-like, is pitched my tent, 
And straight again is furled. 

Yet oft I dream, that once a wife 
Close in my heart was locked, 

And in the sweet repose of life 
A blessed child I rocked. 

I wake ! Away that dream, — away ! 

Too long did it remain ! 
So long, that both by night and day 

It ever comes again. 

The end lies ever in my thought ; 

To a grave so cold and deep 
The mother beautiful was brought; 

Then dropt the child asleep. 

But now the dream is wholly o'er, 

I bathe mine eyes and see; 
And wander through the world once more, 

A youth so light and free. 



258 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

Two locks, — and they are wondrous fair 

Left me that vision mild ; 
The brown is from the mother's hair, 

The blond is from the child. 

And when I see that lock of gold, 
Pale grows the evening-red ; 

And when the dark lock I behold, 
I wish that I were dead. 



IT IS NOT ALWAYS MAY. 

XO HAY l'AJAROS EN LOS NIDOS DE ANTANO. 

Spanish Proverb, 

The sun is bright, — the air is clear, 

The darting swallows soar and sing, 

And from the stately elms I hear 

The blue-bird prophesying Spring. 

So blue yon winding river flows, 
It seems an outlet from the sky, 

Where waiting till the west wind blows, 
The freighted clouds at anchor lie. 

All things are new ; the buds, the leaves, 
That guild the elm tree's nodding crest, 

And even the nest beneath the eaves ; — 
There are no birds in last year's nest ! 



IT IS NOT ALWAYS MAY 



259 



All things rejoice in youth and love, 
The fulness of their first delight ! 

And learn from the soft heavens above 
The melting tenderness of night. 




Maiden, that read'st this simple rhyme, 
Enjoy thy youth, it will not stay ; 

Enjoy the fragrance of thy prime, 
For O ! it is not always May ! 



260 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



Enjoy the Spring- of Love and Youth, 
To some good angel leave the rest ; 

For Time will teach thee soon the truth, 
There are no birds in last year's nest ! 










v& 






THE RAINY DAY 



The day is cold, and dark, and dreary ; 
It rains, and the wind is never weary ; 
The vine still clings to the mouldering wall, 
But at every gust the dead leaves fall, 
And the day is dark and dreary. 



GODS-ACRE. 261 

My life is cold, and dark, and dreary ; 
It rains, and the wind is never weary ; 
My thoughts still cling to the mouldering Past, 
But the hopes of youth fall thick in the blast, 
And the days are dark and dreary. 

Be still, sad heart! and cease repining; 
Behind the clouds is the sun still shining ; 
Thy fate is the common fate of all, 
Into each life some rain must fall, 

Some days must be dark and dreary. 



GOD'S-ACRE. 

I LIKE that ancient Saxon phrase, which calls 
The burial-ground God's-Acre ! It is just ; 

It consecrates each grave within its walls, 

And breathes a benison o'er the sleeping dust. 

God's-Acre ! Yes, that blessed name imparts 

Comfort to those, who in the grave have sown 

The seed, that they had garnered in their hearts, 
Their bread of life, alas ! no more their own. 

Into its furrows shall we all be cast, 

In the sure faith, that we shall rise again 

At the great harvest, when the archangel's blast 
Shall winnow, like a fan, the chaff and grain. 

I I 



^62 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 




,J,J7£rHLif S' 



Then shall the good stand in immortal bloom, 
In the fair gardens of that second birth; 

And each bright blossom, mingle its perfume 

With that of flowers, which never bloomed on earth. 



With thy rude ploughshare, Death, turn up the sod, 
And spread the furrow for the seed we sow ; 

This is the field and Acre of our God, 

This is the place, where human harvests grow ! 



TO THE EIVEE CHARLES. 



River ! that in silence windest 

Through the meadows, bright and free, 
Till at length thy rest thou findest 

In the bosom of the sea ! 



Four long years of mingled feeling, 
Half in rest, and half in strife, 

I have seen thy waters stealing 

Onward, like the stream of life. 




264 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

Thou hast taught me, Silent River ! 

Many a lesson, deep and long ; 
Thou hast been a generous giver ; 

I can give thee but a song. 

Oft in sadness and in illness, 

I have watched thy current glide, 

Till the beauty of its stillness 
Overflowed me, like a tide. 

And in better hours and brighter, 
When I saw thy waters gleam, 

I have felt my heart beat lighter, 

And leap onward with thy stream. 

Not for this alone I love thee, 

Nor because thy waves of blue 

From celestial seas above thee 
Take their own celestial hue. 

Where yon shadowy woodlands hide thee, 

And thy waters disappear, 
Friends I love have dwelt beside thee, 

And have made thy margin dear. 

More than this ; — thy name reminds me 
Of three friends, all true and tried ; 

And that name, like magic, binds me 
Closer, closer to thy side. 



BLIND BARTIMEUS 2G. r > 

Friends my soul with joy remembers ! 

How like quivering flames they start, 
When I fan the living embers 

On the hearth-stone of my heart ! 

'Tis for this, thou Silent River ! 

That my spirit leans to thee ; 
Thou hast been a generous giver, 

Take this idle song: from me. 



BLIND BARTIMEUS. 

Blind Bartimeus at the gates 

Of Jericho in darkness waits ; 

He hears the crowd ; — he hears a breath 

Say, " It is Christ of Nazareth ! " 

And calls, in tones of agony, 

'Irjaov, iXlrjaov jjls ! 

The thronging multitudes increase; 
Blind Bartimeus, hold thy peace ! 
But still, above the noisy crowd, 
The beggar's cry is shrill and loud ; 
Until they say, "He calleth thee!" 
Oajccet, tyeipai tyuvei at ! 

Then saith the Christ, as silent stands 

The crowd, " What wilt thou at my hands ?" 



266 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

And he replies, " O give me light ! 
Rabbi, restore the blind man's sight! 
And Jesus answers, "Xiraye ' 
H Triarie gov alvioici ge ! 

Ye that have eyes, yet cannot see, 
In darkness and in misery, 
Recall those mighty Voices Three, 
'Irjaov, eXet](t6v jjle ! 
Qapaet, eyeipai, inraye ! 

H 7TI<TTIQ (70V fTeCTWiCE (TE ! 



THE GOBLET OF LIFE. 

Filled is Life's goblet to the brim; 
And though my eyes with tears are dim, 
I see its sparkling bubbles swim, 
And chaunt a melancholy hymn 
With solemn voice and slow. 

No purple flowers, — no garlands green, 
Conceal the goblet's shade or sheen, 
Nor maddening draughts of Hippocrene, 
Like gleams of sunshine, flash between 
Thick leaves of mistletoe. 

This goblet, wrought with curious art, 
Is filled with waters, that upstart, 



THE GOBLET OF LIFE. 26" 

When the deep fountains of the heart, 
By strong- convulsions rent apart, 
Are running all to waste. 

And as it mantling- passes round, 
With fennel is it wreathed and crowned, 
Whose seed and foliage sun-imbrowned 
Are in its waters steeped and drowned, 
And give a bitter taste. 

Above the lowly plants it towers, 
The fennel, with its yellow flowers, 
And in an earlier age than ours 
Was gifted with the wondrous powers, 
Lost vision to restore. 

It gave new strength, and fearless mood 
And gladiators, fierce and rude, 
Mingled it in their daily food ; 
And he who battled and subdued, 
A wreath of fennel wore. 

Then in Life's goblet freely press 
The leaves that give it bitterness, 
Nor prize the coloured waters less, 
For in thy darkness and distress 

New light and strength they give ! 

And he who has not learned to know 
How false its sparkling bubbles show, 



268 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

How bitter are the drops of woe, 
With which its brim may overflow, 
He has not learned to live. 

The prayer of Ajax was for light ; 
Through all that dark and desperate fight, 
The blackness of that noonday night, 
He asked but the return of sight, 
To see his foeman's face. 

Let our unceasing, earnest prayer 
Be, too, for light, — for strength to bear 
Our portion of the weight of care, 
That crushes into dumb despair 
One half the human race. 



ye afflicted ones, who lie 
Steeped to the lips in misery, 
Longing, and yet afraid to die, 

Patient, though sorely tried! 

1 pledge you in this cup of grief, 
Where floats the fennel's bitter leaf! 
The Battle of our Life is brief, 

The alarm, — the struggle, — the relief, 
Then sleep we side by side. 



MAIDENHOOD. 



269 




Maiden ! with the meek, brown eyes, 
In whose orbs a shadow lies 
Like the dusk in evening skies ! 



J J 



270 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

Thou whose locks outshine the sun, 
Golden tresses, wreathed in one, 
As the hraided streamlets run ! 

Standing, with reluctant feet, 
Where the brook and river meet, 
Womanhood and childhood fleet ! 

Gazing, with a timid glance, 
On the brooklet's swift advance, 
On the river's broad expanse ! 

Deep and still, that gliding stream 
Beautiful to thee must seem, 
As the river of a dream. 

Then why pause with indecision, 
When bright angels in thy vision 
Beckon thee to fields Elysian ? 

Seest thou shadows sailing by, 
As the dove, with startled eye 
Sees the falcon's shadow fly ? 

Hearest thou voices on the shore, 
That our ears perceive no more, 
Deafened by the cataract's roar ? 

O, thou child of many prayers ! 

Life hath quicksands, — Life hath snares! 

Care and aere come unawares ! 



MAIDENHOOD. 271 

Like the swell of some sweet tune, 
Morning rises into noon, 
May glides onward into June. 

Childhood is the bough, where slumbered 
Birds and blossoms many-numbered ; — 
Age, that bough with snows encumbered. 

Gather, then, each flower that grows, 
When the young heart overflows, 
To embalm that tent of snows. 

Eear a lily in thy hand ; 

Gates of brass cannot withstand 

One touch of that magic wand. 

Bear through sorrow, wrong, and ruth, 
In thy heart the dew of youth, 
On thy lips the smile of truth. 

O, that dew, like balm, shall steal 
Into wounds, that cannot heal, 
Even as sleep our eyes doth seal ; 

And that smile, like sunshine, dart 
Into many a sunless heart, 
For a smile of God thou art. 




EXCELSIOR. 
The shades of night were falling fast, 
As through an Alpine village passed 
A vonth, who bore, 'mid snow and ice, 
A banner with the strange device 
Excelsior ! 



EXCELSIOR. 273 

His brow was sad ; his eye beneath, 
Flashed like a faulchion from its sheath, 
And like a silver clarion rung 
The accents of that unknown tongue, 
Excelsior ! 

In happy homes he saw the light 

Of household fires gleam warm and bright ; 

Above, the spectral glaciers shone, 

And from his lips escaped a groan, 

Excelsior ! 

" Try not the Pass !" the old man said ; 
" Dark lowers the tempest overhead, 
The roaring torrent is deep and wide !" 
And loud that clarion voice replied 
Excelsior ! 

" O stay," the maiden said, " and rest 
Thy weary head upon this breast !" 
A tear stood in his bright blue eye, 
But still he answered, with a sigh, 
Exceisior ! 

" Beware the pine-tree's withered branch ! 
Beware the awful avalanche !" 
This was the peasant's last Good-night, 
A voice replied, far up the height, 
Excelsior ! 



274 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

At break of day, as heavenward 
The pious monks of St. Bernard 
Uttered the oft-repeated prayer, 
A voice cried through the startled air 
Excelsior ! 

A traveller, by the faithful hound, 
Half- buried in the snow was found, 
Still grasping in his hand of ice 
That banner with the strange device 
Excelsior ! 

There in the twilight cold and gray, 
Lifeless, but beautiful, he lay, 
And from the sky, serene and far, 
A voice fell, like a falling star, 
Excelsior ! 



CARILLON. 



In the ancient town of Bruges, 
In the quaint old Flemish city, 
As the evening shades descended, 
Low and loud and sweetly blended, 
Low at times and loud at times, 
And changing like a poet's rhymes, 
Hang the beautiful wild chimes 
From the Belfry in the market 
Of the ancient town of Bruges. 



CARILLON. 275 

Then with deep sonorous clangour 
Calmly answering their sweet anger, 
When the wrangling bells had ended, 
Slowly struck the clock eleven, 
And, from out the silent heaven, 
Silence on the town descended. 
Silence, silence everywhere 
On the earth and in the air, 
Save that footsteps here and there 
Of some burgher home returning, 
By the street lamps faintly burning, 
For a moment woke the echoes 
Of the ancient town of Bruges. 

But amid my broken slumbers 
Still I heard those magic numbers, 
As they loud proclaimed the flight 
And stolen marches of the night ; 
Till their chimes in sweet collision 
Mingled with each wandering vision, 
Mingled with the fortune-telling 
Gipsy bands of dreams and fancies, 
Which amid the waste expanses 
Of the silent land of trances 
Have their solitary dwelling. 
All else seemed asleep in Bruges, 
In the quaint old Flemish city. 

And I thought how like these chimes 
Are the poet's airy rhymes, 
All his rhymes and roundelays, 
His conceits, and songs, and ditties, 



276 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

From the belfry of his brain, 
Scattered downward, though in vain, 
On the roofs and stones of cities ! 
For by night the drowsy ear 
Under its curtains cannot hear, 
And by day men go their ways, 
Hearing the music as they pass, 
But deeming it no more, alas ! 
Than the hollow sound of brass. 

Yet perchance a sleepless wight, 

Lodging at some humble inn 

In the narrow lanes of life, 

When the dusk and hush of night 

Shut out the incessant din 

Of daylight and its toil and strife, 

May listen with a calm delight 

To the poet's melodies, 

Till he hears, or dreams he hears, 

Intermingled with the song, 

Thoughts that he has cherished long; 

Hears amid the chime and singing 

The bells of his own village ringing, 

And wakes, and finds his slumbrous eyes 

Wet with most delicious tears. 

Thus dreamed I, as by night I lay 
In Bruges, at the Fleur-de-Ble, 
Listening with a wild delight 
To the chimes that, through the night, 
Rang their changes from the Belfry 
Of that quaint old Flemish city. 





THE BELFRY OF BRUGES. 

In the market-place of Bruges stands the belfry old and brown; 
Thrice consumed and thrice rebuilded, still it watches o'er the town. 



As the summer morn was breaking, on that lofty tower I stood, 
And the world threw off the darkness, like the weeds of widowhood. 

K K 



278 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

Thick with towns and hamlets studded, and with streams and vapours 

gray, 
Like a shield embossed with silver, round and vast the landscape lay. 

At my feet the city slumbered. From its chimneys, here and there, 
"Wreaths of snow-white smoke, ascending-, vanished, ghost-like 
into air. 

Not a sound rose from the city at that early morning hour, 
But I heard a heart of iron beating in the ancient tower. 

From their nests beneath the rafters sang the swallows, wild and 

high ; 
And the world, beneath me sleeping, seemed more distant than 

the sky. 

Then most musical and solemn, bringing back the olden times, 
With their strange, unearthly changes rang the melancholy chimes, 

Like the psalms from some old cloister, when the nuns sing in the choir ; 
And the great bell tolled among them, like the chanting of a friar. 

Visions of the days departed, shadowy phantoms filled my brain ; 
They who live in history only seemed to walk the earth again ; 

All the Foresters of Flanders, — mighty Baldwin Bras de Fer, 
Lyderick du Bucq and Cressy, Philip, Guy de Dampierre. 

I beheld the pageants splendid, that adorned those days of old ; 
Stately dames, like queens attended, knights who bore the Fleece of 
Gold ; 



THE BELFRY OF BRUGES. 279 

Lombard and Venetian merchants with deep-laden argosies ; 
Ministers from twenty nations; more than royal pomp and ease. 

I beheld proud Maximilian, kneeling humbly on the ground ; 
I beheld the gentle Mary, hunting with her hawk and hound : 

And her lighted bridal-chamber, where a duke slept with the queen, 
And the armed guard around them, and the sword unsheathed 
between. 

I beheld the Flemish weavers, with Namur and Juliers bold, 
Marching homeward from the bloody battle of the Spurs of Gold ; 

Saw the fight at Minnewater, saw the White Hoods moving west, 
Saw great Artevelde victorious scale the Golden Dragon's nest. 

And again the whiskered Spaniard all the land with terror smote ; 
And again the wild alarum sounded from the tocsin's throat ; 

Till the bell of Ghent responded o'er lagoon and dike of sand, 
" I am Roland ! I am Roland ! there is victory in the land ! " 

Then the sound of drums aroused me. The awakened city's roar 
Chased the phantoms I had summoned back into their graves once 
more. 

Hours had passed away like minutes ; and before I was aware, 
Lo! the shadow of the belfry crossed the sun-illumined square. 




Tins is the place. Stand still, my steed, 

Let me review the scene, 
And summon from the shadowy Past 

The forms that once have been. 

The Past and Present here unite 
Beneath Time's flowing tide, 

Like foot-prints hidden by a brook, 
But seen on either side. 






A GLEAM OF SUNSHINE. 281 

Here runs the highway to the town ; 

There the green lane descends, 
Through which I walked to church with thee, 

O gentlest of my friends ! 

The shadow of the linden trees 

Lay moving on the grass ; 
Between them and the moving boughs, 

A shadow, thou didst pass. 

Thy dress was like the lilies, 

And thy heart as pure as they : 

One of God's holy messengers 
Did walk with me that day. 

I saw the branches of the trees 
Bend down thy touch to meet, 

The clover-blossoms in the grass 
Rise up to kiss thy feet. 

" Sleep, sleep to-day, tormenting cares, 

Of earth and folly born ! " 
Solemnly sang the village choir 

On that sweet sabbath morn. 

Through the closed blinds the golden sun 

Poured in a dusty beam, 
Like the celestial ladder seen 

By Jacob in his dream. 



282 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

And ever and anon, the wind, 

Sweet-scented with the hay, 
Turned o'er the hymn-book's fluttering leaves 

That on the window lay. 

Long was the good man's sermon, 

Yet it seemed not so to me ; 
For he spake of Euth the beautiful, 

And still I thought of thee. 



Long was the prayer he uttered, 
Yet it seemed not so to me ; 

For in my heart I prayed Avith him, 
And still I thought of thee. 

But now, alas ! the place seems changed ; 

Thou art no longer here : 
Part of the sunshine of the scene 

With thee did disappear. 

Though thoughts deep-rooted in my heart, 
Like pine trees dark and high, 

Subdue the light of noon, and breathe 
A low and ceaseless sigh ; 

This memory brightens o'er the past, 

As when the sun, concealed 
Behind some cloud that near us hangs, 

Shines on a distant field. 



THE ARSENAL AT SPRINGFIELD. 

This is the Arsenal. From floor to ceiling, 

Like a huge organ, rise the burnished arms ; 

But from their silent pipes no anthem pealing 
Startles the villages with strange alarms. 

Ah ! what a sound will rise, how wild and dreary, 
When the death-angel touches those swift keys ! 

What loud lament and dismal Miserere 

Will mingle with their awful symphonies ! 

1 hear even now the infinite chorus, 

The cries of agony, the endless groan, 

Which, through the ages that have gone before us, 
In long reverberations reach our own. 

On helm and harness rings the Saxon hammer, 

Through Cimbric forest roars the Norseman's song, 

And loud, amid the universal clamour, 

O'er distant deserts sounds the Tartar gong. 

I hear the Florentine, who from his palace 

Wheels out his battle bell with dreadful din, 

And Aztec priests upon their teocallis 

Beat the wild war-drums made of serpent's skin ; 



284 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

The tumult of each sacked and burning village ; 

The shout that every prayer for mercy drowns 
The soldiers' revels in the midst of pillage ; 

The wail of famine in beleaguered towns : 



The bursting shell, the gateway wrenched asunder, 
The rattling musketry, the clashing blade ; 

And ever and anon, in tones of thunder, 
The diapason of the cannonade. 

Is it, O man, with such discordant noises, 

With such accursed instruments as these, 

Thou drownest Nature's sweet and kindly voices, 
And j arrest the celestial harmonies? 

Were half the power, that fills the world with terror, 

Were half the wealth, bestowed on camps and courts, 

Given to redeem the human mind from error, 
There were no need of arsenals nor forts. 

The warrior's name would be a name abhorred ! 

And every nation that should lift again 
Its hand against a brother, on its forehead 

Would wear for evermore the curse of Cain ! 

Down the dark future, through long generations, 

The echoing sounds grow fainter and then cease ; 

And like a bell, with solemn, sweet vibrations, 

I hear once more the voice of Christ say, "Peace ! " 



NUREMBERG. 285 



Peace ! and no longer from its brazen portals 

The blast of War's great organ shakes the skies ! 

But beautiful as songs of the immortals, 
The holy melodies of love arise. 



NUREMBERG. 

In the valley of the Pegnitz, where across broad meadow lands 
Rise the blue Franconian mountains, Nuremberg, the ancient, stands. 

Quaint old town of toil and traffic, quaint old town of art and song, 
Memories haunt thy pointed gables, like the rooks that round them 
throng; 

Memories of the Middle Ages, when the emperors, rough and bold, 
Had their dwelling in thy castle, time-defying, centuries old; 

And thy brave and thrifty burghers boasted, in their uncouth rhyme, 
That their great imperial citj T stretched its hand through every 
clime. 

In the court-yard of the castle, bound with many an iron band, 
Stands the mighty linden planted by Queen Cunigunde's hand ; 

On the square the oriel window, where in old heroic days 
Sat the poet Melchior singing Kaiser Maximilian's praise. 

Everywhere I see around me rise the wondrous world of Art : 
Fountains wrought with richest sculpture standing in the common 
mart ; 

L L 



286 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

And above cathedral doorways saints and bishops carved in stone, 
By a former age commissioned as apostles to our own. 

In the church of sainted Sebald sleeps enshrined his holy dust, 
And in bronze the Twelve Apostles guard from age to age their trust; 

In the church of sainted Laurence stands a pix of sculpture rare, 
Like the foamy sheaf of fountains, rising through the painted air. 

Here, when Art was still religion, with a simple, reverent heart, 
Lived and laboured Albrecht Durer, the Evangelist of Art ; 




Hence in silence and in sorrow, toiling still with busy hand, 
Like an emigrant he wandered, seeking for the Better Land. 



NUREMBERG. 287 

Emigravit is the inscription on the tomb-stone where he lies ; 
Dead he is not, — hut departed, — for the artist never dies. 

Fairer seems the ancient city, and the sunshine seems more fair, 
That he once has trod its pavement, that he once has breathed its air ! 

Through these streets so broad and stately, these obscure and dismal 

lanes, 
Walked of yore the Master-singers, chanting rude poetic strains. 

From remote and sunless suburbs, came they to the friendly guild. 
Building nests in Fame's great temple, as in spouts the swallows build. 

As the weaver plied the shuttle, wove he too the mystic rhyme, 
And the smith his iron measures hammered to the anvil's chime ; 

Thanking God, whose boundless wisdom makes the flowers of poesy 

bloom 
In the forge's dust and cinders, in the tissues of the loom. 

Here Hans Sachs, the cobbler poet, laureate of the gentle craft, 
Wisest of the Twelve Wise Masters, in huge folios sang and laughed. 

But his house is now an ale-house, with a nicely sanded floor, 
And a garland in the window, and his face above the door ; 

Painted by some humble artist, as in Adam Puschman's song, 

As the old man gray and dove-like, with his great beard white and long. 

And at night the swart mechanic comes to drown his caik and care, 
Quaffing ale from pewter tankards, in the master's antique chair. 



288 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

Banished is the ancient splendour, and before my dreamy eye 
Wave these mingling shapes and figures, like a faded tapestry. 

Not thy Councils, not thy Kaisers, win for thee the world's regard ; 
Bat thy painter, Albrecht Diirer, and Hans Sachs, thy cobbler bard. 

Thus, O Nuremberg, a wanderer .from a region far away, 
As he paced thy streets and court-yards, sang in thought his 
careless lay ; 

Gathering from the pavement's crevice, as a floweret of the soil, 
The nobility of labour, — the long pedigree of toil. 




ALnmrcBT Dbrer, 




V ' V THE NORMAN BARON 

Dans les moments tie la vie ou la reflexion devient 
calme et plus profonde, ou. l'interet et l'avarice parlent 
moinshautque la raison, dans les instants de chagrin 
domestique, de maladic, et de peril de mart, les nobles 
se rcpentirent de posseder des serfs, comme d'une chose 
peu agreable a Dieu, qui avait cree tons ks hommes a 
son image. 

TlIIKRUY : CoNQUETE 1)E l'ANGLKTERRK. 



N his chamber, weak, and dyin< 
Was the Norman baron lying 
Loud, without, the tempest thundered 
And the castle-turret shook. 




290 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



In this fight was Death the gainer, 
Spite of vassal and retainer, 
And the lands his sires had plundered, 
Written in the Doomsday Book. 

By his bed a monk was seated, 
Who in humble voice repeated 
Many a prayer and pater-noster, 
From the missal on his knee ; 

And, amid the tempest pealing, 
Sounds of bells came faintly stealing, 
Bells, that, from the neighbouring cloister, 
Rang for the Nativity. 




THE NORMAN BARON. 291 

In the hall, the serf and vassal 

Held, that uig'ht, their Christmas wassail ; 

Many a carol, old and saintly, 

Sang the minstrels and the waits. 

And so loud these Saxon gleemen 
Sang to slaves the songs of freemen, 
That the storm was heard but faintly, 
Knocking at the castle gates. 

Till at length the lays they chaunted 
Reached the chamber terror-haunted, 
Where the monk, with accents holy, 
Whispered at the baron's ear. 

Tears upon his eyelids glistened, 
As he paused awhile and listened, 
And the dying baron slowly 

Turned his weary head to hear. 

" Wassail for the kingly stranger 
Born and cradled in a manger ! 
King, like David, priest, like Aaron, 
Christ is born to set us free !" 

And the lightning showed the sainted 
Figures on the casement painted, 
And exclaimed the shuddering baron, 
" Miserere, Domine !" 



292 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

In that hour of deep contrition, 
He beheld, with clearer vision, 
Through all outward show and fashion, 
Justice, the Avenger, rise. 

All the pomp of earth had vanished, 
Falsehood and deceit were banished, 
Reason spake more loud than passion, 
And the truth wore no disguise. 

Every vassal of his banner, 
Every serf born to his manor, 
All those wronged and wretched creatures,, 
By his hand were freed again. 

And, as on the sacred missal, 
He recorded their dismissal, 
Death relaxed his iron features, 

And the monk replied, " Amen ! " 

Many centuries have been numbered 
Since in death the baron slumbered 
By the convent's sculptured portal, 
Mingling with the common dust : 

But the good deed, through the ages 
Living in. historic pages, 
Brighter grows and gleams immortal, 
Un consumed by moth or rust. 



rain in summer. 

How beautiful is the rain ! 
After the dust and heat, 
In the broad and fiery street, 
In the narrow lane, 
How beautiful is the rain ! 

How it clatters along- the roofs, 

Like the tramp of hoofs ! 

How it gushes and struggles out 

From the throat of the overflowing- spout ! 

Across the window pane 

It pours and pours ; 

And swift and wide, 

With a muddy tide, 

Like a river down the gutter roars 

The rain, the welcome rain ! 

The sick man from his chamber looks 

At the twisted brooks ; 

He can feel the cool 

Breath of each little pool ; 

His fevered brain 

Grows calm again, 

And he breathes a blessing on the rain. 

From the neighbouring school 

Come the boys, 

With more than their wonted noise 

M M 



294 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

And commotion ; 
And down the wet streets 
Sail their mimic fleets, 
Till the treacherous pool 
Engulfs them in its whirling 
And turbulent ocean. 

In the country, on every side, 

Where far and wide, 

Like a leopard's tawny and spotted hide, 

Stretches the plain, 

To the dry grass and the dryer grain 

How welcome is the rain ! 

In the furrowed land 

The toilsome and patient oxen stand ; 

Lifting the yoke-encumbered head, 

With their dilated nostrils spread, 

They silently inhale 

The clover-scented gale, 

And the vapours that arise 

From the well watered and smoking soil. 

For this rest in the furrow after toil 

Their large and lustrous eyes 

Seem to thank the Lord, 

More than man's spoken word. 

Near at hand, 

From under the sheltering trees, 

The farmer sees 

His pastures, and his fields of grain, 




As they bend their tops 

To the numberless beating drops 

Of the incessant rain. 

He counts it as no sin 

That he sees therein 

Only his own thrift and gain. 



These, and far more than these, 
The Poet sees ! 






296 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

He can behold 

Aquarius old 

Walking the fenceless fields of air ; 

And from each ample fold 

Of the clouds about him rolled 

Scattering everywhere 

The showery rain, 

As the farmer scatters his grain. 

He can behold 

Things manifold 

That have not yet been wholly told, 

Have not been wholly sung nor said. 

For his thought, that never stops, 

Follows the water-drops 

Down to the graves of the dead, 

Down through chasms and gulfs profound, 

To the dreary fountain-head 

Of lakes and rivers under ground ; 

And sees them, when the rain is done, 

On the bridge of colours seven 

Climbing up once more to heaven, 

Opposite the setting sun. 

Thus the Seer, 

AVith vision clear, 

Sees forms appear and disappear, 

In the perpetual round of strange, 

Mysterious change 

From birth to death, from death to birth, 

From earth to heaven from heaven to earth, 



TO A CHILD. 297 

Till glimpses more sublime 

Of things, unseen before, 

Unto his wondering eyes reveal 

The Universe, as an immeasurable wheel 

Turning for evermore 

In the rapid and rushing river of Time. 



TO A CHILD. 

Dear child ! how radiant on thy mother's knee, 

With merry-making eyes and jocund smiles, 

Thou gazest at the painted tiles, 

Whose figures grace, 

With many a grotesque form and face, 

The ancient chimney of thy nursery! 

The lady with the gay macaw, 

The dancing girl, the grave bashaw 

With bearded lip and chin ; 

And, leaning idly o'er his gate, 

Beneath the imperial fan of state 

The Chinese Mandarin. 

With what a look of proud command 
Thou shakest in thy little hand 
The coral rattle with its silver bells, 
Making a merry tune ! 
Thousands of years in Indian seas 
That coral grew, by slow degrees, 
Until some deadly and wild monsoon 
Dashed it on Coromandel's sand ! 



298 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 




Those silver bells 

Reposed of yore, 

As shapeless ore, 

Far down into the deep-sunken wells 

Of darksome mines, 

In some obscure and sunless place, 

Beneath huge Chimborazo's base, 

Or steep Potosi's mountain pines ! 



TO A CHILD. 299 

And thus for thee, O little child, 

Through many a danger and escape, 

The tall ships passed the stormy cape ; 

For thee in foreign lands remote, 

Beneath a burning, tropic clime, 

The Indian peasant, chasing the wild goat, 

Himself as swift and wild, 

In falling, clutched the frail arbute, 

The fibres of whose shallow root, 

Uplifted from the soil, betrayed 

The silver veins beneath it laid, 

The buried treasures of the miser, Time. 

But, lo ! thy door is left ajar ! 

Thou hearest footsteps from afar ! 

And, at the sound, 

Thou turnest round 

With quick and questioning eyes, 

Like one, who in a foreign land, 

Beholds on every hand 

Some source of w T onder and surprise ! 

And, restlessly, impatiently, 

Thou strivest, strugglest, to be free. 

The four walls of thy nursery 

Are now like prison walls to thee. 

No more thy mother's smiles, 

No more the painted tiles, 

Delight thee, nor the playthings on the floor, 

That won thy little, beating heart before ; 

Thou strugglest for the open door. 



300 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



Through these onee solitary halls 

Thy pattering footstep falls. 

The sound of thy merry voice 

Makes the old walls 

Jubilant, and they rejoice 

With the joy of thy young- heart, 

O'er the light of whose gladness 

No shadows of sadness 

From the sombre background of memory start. 




Once, ah, once, within these walls, 
One whom memory oft recalls, 
The Father of his Country, dwelt, 
And yonder meadows broad and damp 



TO A CHILD. 301 

The fires of the besieging camp 
Encircled with a burning belt. 
Up and down these echoing stairs, 
Heavy with the weight of cares, 
Sounded his majestic tread ; 
Yes, within this very room 
Sat he in those hours of gloom, 
Weary both in heart and head. 

But what are these grave thoughts to thee ? 

Out, out ! into the open air ! 

Thy only dream is liberty, 

Thou carest little how or where. 

I see thee eager at thy play, 

Now shouting to the apples on the tree, 

With cheeks as round and red as they ; 

And now among the yellow stalks, 

Among the flowering shrubs and plants,* 

As restless as the bee. 

Along the garden walks, 

The tracts of thy small carriage-wheels I trace ; 

And see at every turn how they efface 

Whole villages of sand-roofed tents, 

That rise like golden domes 

Above the cavernous and secret homes 

Of wandering and nomadic tribes of ants. 

Ah, cruel little Tamerlane, 

Who, with thy dreadful reign, 

Dost persecute and overwhelm 

These hapless Troglodytes of thy realm ! 

N N 



302 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

What! tired already! with those suppliant looks, 
And voice more beautiful than a poet's books, 
Or murmuring sound of water as it flows, 
Thou comest back to parley with repose ! 




This rustic seat in the old apple-tree, 

With its o'erhanging golden canopy 

Of leaves illuminate with autumnal hues, 

And shining with the argent light of dews, 

Shall for a season be our place of rest. 

Beneath us, like an oriole's pendent nest, 

From which the laughing birds have taken wing, 

By thee abandoned, hangs thy vacant swing. 

Dream-like the waters of the river gleam ; 

A sail-less vessel drops adown the stream, 

And like it, to a sea as wide and deep, 

Thou driftest gently down the tides of sleep. 

O child! O new-born denizen 
Of life's great city ! on thy head 



TO A CHILD. 303 

The glory of the morn is shed, 

Like a celestial benison ! 

Here at the portal thou dost stand, 

And with thy little hand 

Thou openest the mysterious gate 

Into the future's undiscovered land. 

I see its valves expand, 

As at the touch of Fate ! 

Into those realms of love and hate, 

Into that darkness blank and drear, 

By some prophetic feeling taught, 

I launch the bold, adventurous thought, 

Freighted with hope and fear ; 

As upon subterranean streams, 

In caverns unexplored and dark, 

Men sometimes launch a fragile bark, 

Laden with nickering fire, 

And watch its swift-receding beams, 

Until at length they disappear, 

And in the distant dark expire. 



By what astrology of fear or hope 
Dare I to cast thy horoscope ! 
Like the new moon thy life appears 
A little strip of silver light, 
And widening outward into night 
The shadowy disk of future years ; 
And yet upon its outer rim, 
A luminous circle, faint and dim. 



304 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

And scarcely visible to us here, 

Rounds and completes the perfect sphere 

A prophecy and intimation, 

A pale and feeble adumbration, 

Of the great world of light, that lies 

Behind all human destinies. 

Ah ! if thy fate, with anguish fraught, 
Should be to wet the dusty soil 
With the hot tears and sweat of toil, 
To struggle with imperious thought, 
Until the overburdened brain, 
Weary with labour, faint with pain, 
Like a jarred pendulum, retain 
Only its motion, not its power, — 
Remember in that perilous hour, 
When most afflicted and oppressed, 
From labour there shall come forth rest. 

And if a more auspicious fate 
On thy advancing steps await, 
Still let it ever be thy pride 
To linger by the labourer's side ; 
With words of sympathy or song 
To cheer the dreary march along 
Of the great army of the poor, 
O'er desert sand, o'er dangerous moor. 
Nor to thyself the task shall be 
Without reward ; for thou shalt learn 
The wisdom early to discern 
True beauty in utility ; 



THE OCCULTATION OF ORION. 305 

As great Pythagoras of yore, 
Standing beside the blacksmith's door, 
And hearing the hammers, as they smote 
The anvils with a different note, 
Stole from the varying tones, that hung 
Vibrant on every iron tongue, 
The seeret of the sounding wire, 
And formed the seven-chorded lyre. 

Enough ! I will not play the Seer: 
I will no longer strive to ope 
The mystic volume, where appear 
The herald Hope, forerunning Fear, 
And Fear, the pursuivant of Hope. 
Thy destiny remains untold ; 
For, like Acestes' shaft of old, 
The swift thought kindles as it flies, 
And burns to ashes in the skies. 



THE OCCULTATION OF ORION. 

I saw, as in a dream sublime, 
The balance in the hand of Time. 
O'er East and West its beam impended 
And day, with all its hours of light, 
Was slowly sinking out of sight, 
While, opposite, the scale of night 
Silently with the stars ascended. 

Like the astrologers of eld, 
In that bright vision I beheld 



308 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

Greater and deeper mysteries. 

I saw, with its celestial keys, 

Its chords of air, its frets of fire, 

The Samian's great ^Eolian lyre, 

Rising through all its sevenfold oars, 

From earth unto the fixed stars. 

And through the dewy atmosphere, 

Not only could I see, but hear, 

Its wondrous and harmonious strings, 

In sweet vibration, sphere by sphere, 

From Dian's circle light and near, 

Onward to vaster and wider rings, 

Where, chanting through his beard of snows, 

Majestic, mournful, Saturn goes, 

And down the sunless realms of space 

Reverberates the thunder of his bass. 

Beneath the sky's triumphal arch 
This music sounded like a march, 
And with its chorus seemed to be 
Preluding some great tragedy. 
Sirius was rising in the east ; 
And, slow ascending one by one, 
The kindling constellations shone. 
Begirt with many a blazing star, 
Stood the great giant Algebar, 
Orion, hunter of the beast ! 
His sword hung gleaming by his side, 
And, on his arm, the lion's hide 
Scattered across the midnight air 
The golden radiance of its hair, 




The moon was pallid, but not faint ; 

And beautiful as some fair saint, 

Serenely moving on her way 

In hours of trial and dismay. 

As if she heard the voice of God, 

Unharmed with naked feet she trod 



308 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

Upon the hot and burning stars, 
As on the glowing coals and bars, 
That were to prove her strength, and try 
Her holiness and her purity. 

Thus moving on, with silent pace, 

And triumph in her sweet, pale face, 

She reached the station of Orion, 

Aghast he stood in strange alarm ! 

And suddenly from his outstretched arm 

Down fell the red skin of the lion 

Into the river at his feet. 

His mighty club no longer beat 

The forehead of the bull ; but he 

Reeled as of yore beside the sea, 

When, blinded by GEnopion, 

He sought the blacksmith at his forge, 

And, climbing up the mountain gorge, 

Fixed his blank eyes upon the sun. 

Then, through the silence overhead, 

An angel with a trumpet said, 

" Forevermore, forevermore, 

The reign of violence is o'er! " 

And, like an instrument that flings 

Its music on another's strings, 

The trumpet of the angel cast 

Upon the heavenly lyre its blast, 

And on from sphere to sphere the words 

Reechoed down the burning chords, — 

" Forevermore, forevermore, 

The reign of violence is o'er ! " 




THE BRIDGE. 

I STOOD on the bridge at midnight, 

As the clocks were striking the hour, 

And the moon rose o'er the city, 
Behind the dark church tower, 



I saw her bright reflection 
In the waters under me, 

Like a golden goblet falling 
And sinking into the sen, 



310 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

And far in the hazy distance 

Of that lovely night in June, 

The blaze of the flaming furnace 

Gleamed redder than the moon. 

Among the long, black rafters 
The wavering shadows lay, 

And the current that came from the ocean 
Seemed to lift and bear them away ; 

As, sweeping and eddying through them, 

Rose the belated tide, 
And, streaming into the moonlight, 

The seaweed floated wide. 



Among the wooden piers, 
A flood of thoughts came o'er me 
That filled my eyes with tears. 

How often, 0, how often, 

In the days that had gone by, 

I had stood on that bridge at midnight 
And gazed on that wave and sky ! 

How often, 0, how often, 

I had wished that the ebbing tide 
Would bear me away on its bosom 

O'er the ocean wild and 'wide ! 



THE BRIDGE. 311 



For my heart was hot and restless, 
And my life was full of care, 

And the burden laid upon me 

Seemed greater than I could bear. 



»- 



But now it has fallen from me, 

It is buried in the sea ; 
And only the sorrow of others 

Throws its shadow over me. 

Yet whenever I cross the river 

On its bridge with wooden piers, 

Like the odour of brine from the ocean 
Comes the thought of other years. 

And I think how many thousands 

Of care-encumbered men, 
Each bearing his burden of sorrow, 

Have crossed the bridge since then. 

I see the long procession 

Still passing to and fro, 
The young heart hot and restless, 

And the old subdued and slow! 

And forever and forever, 

As long as the river flows, 

As long as the heart has passions, 
As long as life has woes; 



312 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

The moon and its broken reflection 
And its shadows shall appear, 

As the symbol of love in heaven, 
And its wavering image here. 



TO THE DRIVING CLOUD. 

Gloomy and dark art thou, O chief of the mighty Omahaws ; 
Gloomy and dark, as the driving cloud, whose name thou hast 

taken ! 
Wrapt in thy scarlet blanket, I see thee stalk through the city's 
Narrow and populous streets, as once by the margin of rivers 
Stalked those birds unknown, that have left us only their footprints. 
What, in a few short years, will remain of thy race but the foot- 
prints ? 

How canst thou walk in these streets, who hast trod the green turf of 

the prairies ? 
How canst thou breathe in this air, who hast breathed the sweet air 

of the mountains ? 
Ah ! 'tis in vain that with lordly looks of disdain thou dost challenge 
Looks of dislike in return, and question these walls and these 

pavements, 
Claiming the soil for thy hunting-grounds, while down-trodden 

millions 
Starve in the garrets of Europe, and cry from its caverns that they, too, 
Have been created heirs of the earth, and claim its division ! 
Back, then, back to thy woods in the regions west of the Wabash ! 



TO THE DRIVING CLOUD. 313 

There as a monarch thou reignest. In autumn the leaves of the 
maple 

Pave the floors of thj palace halls with gold, and in summer 

Pine trees waft through its chambers the odorous breath of their 
branches. 

There thou art strong and great, a hero, a tamer of horses ! 

There thou chasest the stately stag on the banks of the Elk- 
horn, 

Or by the roar of the Running- Water, or where the Omawhaw 

Calls thee, and leaps through the wild ravine like a brave of the 
Blackfeet ! 

Hark ! what murmurs arise from the heart of those mountainous 

deserts ? 
Is it the cry of the Foxes and Crows, or the mighty Behemoth, 
Who, unharmed, on his tusks once caught the bolts of the thunder, 
And now lurks in his lair to destroy the race of the red man ? 
Far more fatal to thee and thy race than the Crows and the Foxes, 
Far more fatal to thee and thy race than the tread of Behemoth, 
Lo ! the big thunder-canoe, that steadily breasts the Missouri's 
Merciless current ! and yonder, afar on the prairies, the camp-fires 
Gleam through the night ; and the cloud of dust in the gray of the 

daybreak 
Marks not the buffalo's track, nor the Mandan's dexterous horse- 
race ; 
It is a caravan, whitening the desert where dwell the Camanches ! 
Ha ! how the breath of these Saxons and Celts, like the blast of the 

east-wind, 
Drifts evermore to the west the scanty smokes of thy wigwams ! 




. ^51 ■> 



CUEFEW. 



I. 



Solemnly, mournfully, 

Dealing its dole, 
The Curfew Bell 

Is beginning to toll. 

Cover the embers, 

And put out the light ; 
Toil comes with the morning, 

And rest with the nigrht. 



Dark grow the windows, 

And quenched is the fire 

Sound fades into silence,— 
All footsteps retire. 



CURFEW. 315 

No voice in the chambers, 
No sound in the hall ! 

Sleep and oblivion 
Reijni over all ! 



II. 



The book is completed, 

And closed, like the day ; 

And the hand that has written it 
Lays it away. 

Dim grow its fancies ; 

Forgotten they lie ; 
Like coals in the ashes, 

They darken and die. 

Song sinks into silence, 

The story is told, 
The windows are darkened, 

The hearth-stone is cold. 

Darker and darker 

The black shadows fall ; 
Sleep and oblivion 

Reifrn over all. 



NOTES. 

The following detail of the facts on which the general incidents of the Poem of 
Evangeline are founded, is derived from Haliburton's History of Nova Scotia. 

By the Treaty of Utrecht the province of Acadia, or Nova Scotia, was ceded 
by the French to the English Government. Nearly half a century, however, 
was suffered to elapse before any progress was made towards a regular settle- 
ment of the colony. In the year 1749 a large body of emigrants, aided by a 
grant from the Crown, arrived in the colony, and immediately steps were taken 
by them to clear the ground, and lay the foundation of the town of Halifax. 
The French settlers, who had been located in the province for many years, 
looked with jealousy on these proceedings, and parties of Indians, headed by 
French commanders, were engaged to harass the new comers. This state of 
things continued for some years, but in the meantime the territorial rights of 
both nations were more distinctly defined, and the Acadians took an oath 
of fidelity to the British Government ; with a reservation, however, that they 
were not to be called upon to bear arms. Hostilities again commencing 
between the French and English, Governor Cornwallis, by the advice of his 
council, issued a proclamation, ordering ail the French inhabitants of the 
English colony to appear within three months, and take the oath of allegiance 
in the same unreserved and unqualified manner as British subjects ; and he held 
out promises to those who should think proper to accept the same, and who 
would also engage to obey all future orders of tlje Government, and render assist- 
ance to English settlers, that he would confirm them in the peaceable possession 
of all their cultivated lands, and in the enjoyment of their religion. He forbade, 
however, the exportation of corn, cattle, and provisions, to foreign settlements. 

Pursuant to the proclamation, deputies arrived at Halifax from several of 
the French settlements, and were informed by the Governor that the oath 
of fidelity, formerly accepted of them, would no longer be received as a 
satisfactory guarantee for their good conduct ; that no exemption from bear- 
ing arms in time of war could be allowed ; that his Majesty would permit 
none to possess lands whose allegiance and assistance could not be depended 
upon ; and that commissioners would be sent to the country to tender them 
the oath expressed in the same form as that used by English subjects. To 
this they replied, that if they should undertake to aid the English in sup- 

r p 



318 NOTES. 

pressing the Indians, the savages would pursue them with unrelenting hosti- 
lity ; that neither they nor their property would he secure from their ven- 
geance ; and that to hear arms against their countrymen was a condition 
repugnant to the feelings of human nature : they, therefore, requested to he 
informed, if they chose the alternative of quitting the country, whether they 
would he permitted to sell their lands and personal effects. They were told 
in reply, that, hy the Treaty of Utrecht, one year was allowed to them for dis- 
posing of their property, which period having elapsed, they could now neither 
part with their effects nor remove from the province. Upon hearing this 
determination, which required unconditional allegiance, or reduced them to 
the most abject poverty, they solicited leave to consult the Governors of 
Canada or Cape Breton as to the course they ought to adopt in this trying 
emergency, but were instantly threatened with the confiscation of their real 
estate and effects if they presumed to leave the province until they had first 
taken the oaths of allegiance. 

No immediate steps, however, were taken to carry out this threat, and the 
English settlers still continued to suffer great annoyance from the predatory 
attacks of the Indians, who were aided in their excursions hy the French colo- 
nists. This state of things lasted for some time, until at length the English 
troops met with a series of reverses, when it was finally determined by the 
Government authorities to effect a dislodgment of the Acadians from their 
settlements, and to disperse the entire French population of the province 
among the British colonies, where they could not unite in any offensive mea- 
sures, and where they might be naturalized to the Government and country. 

The execution of this unusual and general sentence was allotted chiefly to 
the New England forces, the commander of which, from the humanity and 
firmness of his character, was well qualified to carry it into effect. It was 
without doubt, as he himself declared, disagreeable to his natural make and 
temper, and his principles of implicit obedience as a soldier were put to a 
severe test by this ungrateful kind of duty, which required an ungenerous, 
cunning, and subtle severity, calculated to render the Acadians subservient 
to the English interests to the latest hour. They were kept entirely ignorant 
of their destiny, until the moment of their captivity ; and were overawed, or 
allured, to labour at the gathering in of their harvest, which was secretly 
allotted to the use of their conquerors. 

The orders from Lieutenant-Governor Laurence to Captain Murray, who 
was first on the station, with a plagiarism of the language, without the spirit 



NOTES. 319 

of Scripture, directed that, if these people behaved amiss, they should be pun- 
ished at his discretion ; and, if any attempts were made to destroy or molest 
the troops, he should take an eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth ; and, in 
short, life for life, from the nearest neighbour where the mischief should be 
performed. 

To hunt these people into captivity was a measure as impracticable as 
cruel ; and, as it was not to be supposed they would voluntarily surrender 
themselves as prisoners, their subjugation became a matter of great difficulty. 
At a consultation held between Colonel "Win slow and Captain Murray, it was 
agreed that a proclamation should be issued at the different settlements, 
requiring the attendance of the people at the respective ports on the same 
day ; which proclamation should be so ambiguous in its nature, that the object 
for which they were to assemble could not be discerned ; and so peremptory 
in its terms as to ensure implicit obedience. This instrument having been 
drafted and approved, was distributed according to the original plan. That 
which was addressed to the people inhabiting the country now comprised 
within the limits of King's Country, was as follows : — 

"TO THE INHABITANTS OF THE DISTRICT OF GRAND PRE, MINAS, RIVER 
CANARD, &c, AS WELL ANCIENT AS YOUNG MEN AND LADS. 

"Whereas his Excellency the Governor has instructed us of his late 
resolution respecting the matter proposed to the inhabitants, and has ordered 
us to communicate the same in person, his Excellency being desirous that 
each of them should be fully satisfied of his Majesty's intentions, which he 
has also ordered us to communicate to you, such as they have been given to 
him ; we therefore order and strictly enjoin, by these presents, all of the 
inhabitants, as well of the above-named district as of all the other districts, 
both old men and young men, as well as all the lads of ten years of age, to attend 
at the church at Grand Pre, on Friday, the fifth instant, at three of the clock 
in the afternoon, that we may impart to them what we are ordered to com- 
municate to them ; declaring that no excuse will be admitted on any pretence 
whatever, on pain of forfeiting goods and chattels, in default of real estate. 

"Given at Grand Pre, 2nd September, 1755, and 29th year of his 
Majesty's reign. John Winslow." 

In obedience to this summons, four hundred and eighteen able-bodied men 
assembled. These being shut into the church (for that, too, had become an 



320 NOTES. 

arsenal), Colonel Winslow placed himself Math his officers in the centre, and 
addressed them thus : — 

" Gentlemen, — I have received from his Excellency Governor Laurence 
the King's commission, which I have in my hand ; and by his orders you are 
convened together to manifest to you his Majesty's final resolution to the 
French inhabitants of this his province of Novia Scotia, who, for almost half 
a century, have had more indulgence granted them than any of his subjects 
in any part of his dominions ; what use you have made of it, you yourselves 
best know. The part of duty I am now upon, though necessary, is very dis- 
agreeable to my natural make and temper, as I know it must be grevious to 
you who are of the same species ; but it is not my business to animadvert, 
but to obey such orders as I receive, and, therefore, without hesitation shall 
deliver you his Majesty's orders and instructions, namely, that your lands 
and tenements, cattle of all kinds, and live stock of all sorts, are forfeited to 
the Crown, with all other your effects, saving your money and household 
goods, and you yourselves to be removed from this his province. 

" Thus it is peremptorily his Majesty's orders that the whole French 
inhabitants of these districts be removed; and I am, through his Majesty's 
goodness, directed to allow you liberty to carry off your money and house- 
hold goods, as many as you can, without discommoding the vessels you go in. 
I shall do everything in my power that all those goods be secured to you, and 
that you are not molested in carrying them off; also that whole families 
shall go in the same vessel, and make this remove, which I am sensible must 
give you a great deal of trouble, as easy as his Majesty's service will admit ; 
and hope that, in whatever part of the world you may fall, you may be faith- 
ful subjects, a peaceful and happy people. I must also inform you, that it 
is his Majesty's pleasure that you remain in security, under the inspection 
and direction of the troops that I have the honour to command." And he 
then declared them the King's prisoners. 

The whole number of persons collected at Grand Pre finally amounted to 
four hundred and eighty-three men, and three hundred and thirty-seven 
women, heads of families ; and their sons and daughters to five hundred and 
twenty-seven of the former, and five hundred and twenty-six of the latter ; 
making, in the whole, one thousand nine hundred and twenty-three souls. 
Their stock consisted of one thousand two hundred and sixty-nine oxen, one 
thousand five hundred and fifty-seven cows, five thousand and seven young 
cattle, four hundred and ninety-three horses, eight thousand six hun- 



NOTES. 321 

dred and ninety sheep, and four thousand one hundred and ninety-seven 
hogs. As some of these wretched inhabitants escaped to the woods, all possible 
measures were adopted to force them back to captivity. The country was laid 
waste to prevent their subsistence. In the district of Minas alone there were 
destroyed two hundred and fifty-five houses, two hundred and seventy-six 
barns, one hundred and fifty-five out-houses, eleven mills, and one church ; 
and the friends of those who refused to surrender were threatened as the 
victims of their obstinacy. 

In short, so operative were the terrors that surrounded them, that of 
twenty-four young men, deserted from a transport, twenty-two were glad to 
return of themselves, the others being shot by sentinels; and one of their friends, 
who was supposed to have been accessory to their escape, was carried on shore 
to behold the destruction of his house and effects, which were burned in his 
presence as a punishment for his temerity and perfidious aid to his comrades. 
The prisoners expressed the greatest concern at having incurred his Majesty's 
displeasure, and in a petition, addressed to Colonel Winslow, entreated him 
to detain a part of them as sureties for the appearance of the rest, who were 
desirous of visiting their families and consoling them in their distress and 
misfortunes. 

To comply with this request of holding a few as hostages for the surrender 
of the whole body, was deemed inconsistent with his instructions; but, as 
there could be no objection to allow a small number of them to return to their 
homes, permission was given to them to choose ten for the district of Minas 
(Horton), and ten for the district of Canard (Cornwallis), to whom leave of 
absence was given for one day ; and on whose return a similar number were 
indulged in the same manner, They bore their confinement and received 
their sentence with a fortitude and resignation altogether unexpected ; but 
when the hour of embarkation arrived, in which they were to leave the land 
of their nativity for ever — to part with their friends and relatives, without the 
hope of ever seeing them again, and to be dispersed among strangers whose 
language, customs, and religion were opposed to their own — the weakness 
of human nature prevailed, and they were overpowered with the sense of their 
miseries. The preparations having been all completed, the 10th of September 
was fixed upon as the day of departure. The prisoners were drawn up six 
deep, and the young men, one hundred and sixty-one in number, were ordered 
to go first on board of the vessels. This they instantly and peremptorily 
refused to do, declaring they would not leave their parents ; but expressed 



322 NOTES. 

a willingness to comply with the order, provided they were permitted to em- 
bark with their families. This request was immediately rejected, and the 
troops were ordered to fix bayonets and advance towards the prisoners, a mo- 
tion which had the effect of producing obedience on the part of the young 
men, who forthwith commenced their march. The road from the chapel to the 
shore, just one mile in length, was crowded with women and children, who on 
their knees greeted them as they passed with their tears and their blessings ; 
while the prisoners advanced with slow and reluctant steps, weeping, praying, 
and singing hymns.' This detachment was followed by the seniors, who 
passed through the same scene of sorrow and distress. In this manner was 
the whole part of the male population of the district of Minas put on board 
the five transports stationed in the river Gaspereau ; each vessel being- 
guarded by six non-commissioned officers, and eighty privates. As soon as 
the other vessels arrived, their wives and children followed, and the whole 
were transported from Nova Scotia. 

The haste with which these measures were carried into execution did not 
admit of those preparations for their comfort which, if unmerited by their 
disloyalty, were at least due in pity to the severity of their punishment, The 
hurry, confusion, and excitement connected with the embarkation had scarcely 
subsided, when the provincials were appalled at the work of their own hands. 
The novelty and peculiarity of their situation could not but force itself upon 
the attention of even the unreflecting soldiery. Stationed in the midst of a 
beautiful and fertile country, they suddenly found themselves without a foe 
to subdue, and without a population to protect. The volumes of smoke which 
the half -expiring embers emitted, while they marked the site of the peasant's 
humble cottage, bore testimony to the extent of the work of destruction. For 
several successive evenings the cattle assembled round the smouldering ruins, 
as if in anxious expectation of the return of their masters; while all nightlong 
the faithful watch-dogs of the neutrals howled over the scene of desolation, and 
mourned alike the hand that had fed and the house that had sheltered them. 

At Annapolis and Cumberland the proclamation was disobeyed by the 
French, in consequence of an apprehension that they were to be imprisoned 
or sent captives to Halifax. At the former place, when the ships arrived to 
convey them from their country, a party of soldiers was despatched up the 
river to bring them in by force ; but they found the houses deserted, and 
learned that the people had fled to the woods, carrying with them their wives 
and children. Hunger, fatigue, and distress finally compelled many of ihem 



NOTES. 323 

to return and surrender themselves as prisoners, while some retired to the 
depths of the forest, where they encamped with the Indians, and others 
wandered through the woods to Chiegnecto, from whence they escaped to 
Canada. In Cumberland it was found necessary to resort to the most severe 
measures, and the country presented for several days a dreadful scene of con- 
flagration. Two hundred and fifty-three houses were on fire at one time, in 
which a great quantity of wheat and flax were consumed. The miserable 
inhabitants beheld, from the adjoining woods, the destruction of their buildings 
and household goods with horror and dismay ; nor did they venture to offer 
any resistance, until the wanton attempt was made to burn their chapel. 
This they considered as adding insult to injury, and rushing upon the party, 
who were too intent upon the execution of their orders, to observe the 
necessary precautions to prevent a surprise, they killed and wounded twenty- 
nine rank and file, and then retreated again to the cover of the forest. As 
the different Acadian settlements were too widely dispersed to admit of the 
plan of subjugation being carried into effect at once, and as it had but par- 
tially succeeded at two of the most populous districts, only seven thousand 
of the inhabitants were collected at this time, and dispersed among the several 
British colonies. One thousand arrived in Massachusetts Bay, and became a 
public expense, owing, in a great degree, to an unchangeable antipathy to their 
situation ; which prompted them to reject the usual beneficiary but humiliat- 
ing establishment of paupers for their children. They landed in a most 
deplorable condition at Philadelphia. Ihe government of the colony, to 
relieve itself of the charge such a company of miserable wretches would 
require to maintain them, proposed to sell them, with their own consent ; 
but when this expedient for their support was offered for their consideration, 
the neutrals refused it with indignation, alleging that they were prisoners, 
and expected to be maintained as such, and not forced to labour. But, not- 
withstanding the severity of the treatment the Acadians had experienced, 
they sighed in exile to revisit their native land. That portion of them which 
had been sent to Georgia actually set out on their return, and by a circuitous 
hazardous, and laborious coasting voyage, had reached New York, and even 
Boston, when they were met by orders from Governor Laurence, for their 
detention, and were compelled to relinquish their design. The others, denying 
the charges which had been made against them, petitioned his Majesty for 
a legal hearing. 

This petition, which Haliburton gives at full length, sets forth, that by 



324 NOTES. 

an agreement made between the British commanders in Nova Scotia and the 
forefathers of the petitioners, about the year 1713, the latter were to be 
permitted to remain in possession of their lands under an oath of fidelity to 
the British Government, with an exemption from bearing arms against either 
French or Indians, and with the allowance of the free exercise of their reli- 
gion. Seventeen years later this agreement was renewed on the part of the 
British authorities by the Governor of New England ; and again, after the 
expiration of another seventeen years, in a declaration which the same 
Governor addressed to the Acadians, in answer to a report at that time current, 
which stated it to be the intention of the British Government to remove 
the French inhabitants of Nova Scotia from their settlements in that province. 
This declaration was further confirmed by a letter written in the same year 
by the chief commander in Nova Scotia to the Acadian deputies ; an extract 
from which was given by the Acadians in their petition. 

After stating the difficulties in which they found themselves placed by 
the frequent incursions made by the French through that portion of the pro- 
vince inhabited by the Acadian population, for the purpose of annoying the 
English, who were at that time engaged in fortifying and settling Halifax, 
the petitioners proceed to reply to what appears to have been the main charges 
made against them, and on the presumed truth of which their forcible removal 
from the province took place. The justification they plead is as follows : — 

" We were likewise obliged to comply with the demand of the enemy, 
made for provision, cattle, &c, upon pain of military execution, which we 
had reason to believe the Government was made sensible was not an act of 
choice on our part, but of necessity, as those in authority appeared to take in 
good part the representations we always made to them after anything. of that 
nature had happened. 

" Notwithstanding the many difficulties we thus laboured under, yet we 
dare appeal to the several Governors, both at Halifax and Annapolis-Boyal, 
for testimonies of our being always ready and willing to obey their orders, 
and give all the assistance in our power, either in furnishing provisions and 
materials, or making roads, building forts, &c , agreeable to your Majesty's 
orders and our oath of fidelity, whensoever called upon, or required thereunto. 

"It was also our constant care to give notice to your Majesty's com- 
manders of the danger they have been from time to time exposed to by the 
enemy's troops ; and had the intelligence we gave been always attended to, 
many lives might have been spared, particularly in the unhappy affair which 



NOTES. 325 

befel Major Noble and his brother at Grand Pre, when they, with great numbers 
of their men, were cut off by the enemy, notwithstanding the frequent advices 
we had given them of the danger they were in ; and yet we have been very 
unjustly accused as parties in that massacre. 

" And although we have been thus anxiously concerned to manifest our 
fidelity in these several respects, yet it has been falsely insinuated that it had 
been our general practice to abet and support your Majesty's enemies ; but we 
trust that your Majesty will not suffer suspicions and accusations to be 
received as proofs sufficient to reduce some thousands of innocent people, from 
the most happy situation to a state of the greatest distress and misery ! No, 
this was far from our thoughts ; we esteemed our situation so happy as by no 
means to desire a change. We have always desired, and again desire, that we 
may be permitted to answer our accusers in a judicial way. In the meantime 
permit us, Sir, here solemnly to declare that these accusations are utterly false 
and groundless so far as they concern us as a collective body of people. It 
hath been always our desire to live as our fathers have done, as faithful sub- 
jects under your Majesty's royal protection, with an unfeigned resolution to 
maintain our oath of fidelity to the utmost of our power. Yet it cannot be 
expected, but that amongst us, as well as amongst other people, there have been 
some weak and false-hearted persons, susceptible of being bribed by the enemy 
so as to break the oath of fidelity. Twelve of these were outlawed in Go- 
vernor Shirley's proclamation before mentioned ; but it will be found that the 
number of such false-hearted men amongst us was very few, considering our 
situation, the number of inhabitants, and how we stood circumstanced in 
several respects, and it may be easily made appear that it was the constant 
care of our deputies to prevent and put a stop to such wicked conduct, when 
it came to their knowledge." 

This memorial had not the effect of procuring them redress, and they were 
left to undergo their punishment in exile, and to mingle with the population 
among wbom they were distributed, with the hope that in time their language, 
predilections, and even the recollection of their origin, would be lost amidst 
the mass of English people with whom they were incorporated. Such was 
the fate of these unfortunate and deluded people. Upon an impartial review 
of the transactions of this period, it must be admitted, that the transportation 
of the Acadians to distant colonies, with all the marks of ignomy and guilt 
peculiar to convicts, was cruel ; and although such a conclusion could not then 
be drawn, yet subsequent events have disclosed that their expulsion was 

Q Q 



326 NOTES. 

unnecessary. It seems totally irreconcilable with the idea, as at this day 
entertained of justice, that those who are not involved in the guilt shall par- 
ticipate in the punishment ; or that a whole community shall suffer for the 
misconduct of a part. It is, doubtless, a stain on the Provincial Councils, and 
we shall not attempt to justify that which all good men have agreed to con- 
demn. But we must not lose sight of the offence in pity for the culprits, nor, 
in the indulgence of our indignation, forget that although nothing can be 
offered in defence, much may be produced in palliation of this transaction. 
Had the milder sentence of unrestricted exile been passed upon them, it was 
obvious that it would have had the effect of recruiting the strength of Canada, 
and that they would naturally have engaged in those attempts which the 
French were constantly making for the recovery of the province. 

Three hundred of them had been found in arms at one time ; and no doubt 
existed of others having advised and assisted the Indians in those numerous 
acts of hostility, which, at that time, totally interrupted the settlement of the 
country. When all were thus suspected of being disaffected, and many were 
detected in open rebellion, what confidence could be placed in their future 
loyalty ? 

It was also deemed impracticable, in those days of religious rancour, for 
the English colonists to mingle in the same community with Frenchmen and 
Catholics. Those persons who are acquainted with the early history of the 
neighbouring colonies of New England, will easily perceive of what magnitude 
this objection must have appeared at that period. Amidst all these difficulties 
surrounded by a vigilant and powerful enemy, and burthened with a population 
whose attachment was more than doubtful, what course could the Governor 
adopt, which, while it ensured the tranquillity of the colony, should temper 
justice with mercy to those misguided people ? With the knowledge we now 
possess of the issue of a contest which was then extremely uncertain, it might 
not be difficult to point to the measures which should have been adopted ; but 
we must admit, that the choice was attended with circumstances of peculiar 
embarrassment. If the Acadians, therefore, had to lament that they were 
condemned unheard, that their accusers were also their judges, and that their 
sentence was disproportion ed to their offence ; they had also much reason to 
attribute their misfortunes to the intrigues of their countrymen in Canada, 
who seduced them from their allegiance to a government which was disposed 
to extend to them its protection and regard, and instigated them to a rebellion 
which it was easy to foresee would end in their ruin. 



NOTES. $21 

Vast meadows stretched to the eastward, 
Giving the village its name, and pasture tojlocks without number. 
Dikes that the hands of the farmers had raised with labour incessant, 
Shut out the turbulent tides. — Page 3. 

" Hunting and fishing gave way to agriculture, which had been established 
in the marshes and lowlands, by repelling, with dikes, the sea and rivers 
which covered these plains. At the same time these immense meadows were 
covered with numerous flocks." — Haliburton. 



But their dwellings were open as day and the hearts of the owners ; 
There the richest was poor, and the poorest lived in abundance. — Page 5. 

" Real misery was wholly unknown, and benevolence anticipated the de- 
mands of poverty. Every misfortune was relieved, as it were, before it could 
be felt, without ostentation on the one hand, and without meanness on the 
other. It was, in short, a society of brethren." — Abbe Reynal. 



Built are the house and the barn. TJie merry lads of the village 

Strongly have built them and well j and breaking the glebe round about them. 

Filled the barn with hay, and the house with food for a tivelvemonth. — Page 19. 

" As soon as a young man arrived at the proper age, the community built 
him a house, broke up the land about it, and supplied him with all the neces- 
saries of life for a twelvemonth. There he received the partner whom he had 
chosen, and who brought him her portion in flocks." — Abbe Reynal. 



Four long years in the times of the war had he languished a captive, 
Suffering much in an old French fort as the friend of the English . — Page 21. 

" Rene Leblanc (our public notary) was taken prisoner by the Indians 
when actually travelling in your Majesty's service, his house pillaged, and 
himself carried to the French fort, from whence he did not recover his liberty, 
but with great difficulty, after four years' captivity." — Petition of the Acadians 
to the King. 



■62H NOTES. 

In the confusion, 
J lives were torn from their husbands, and mothers, too late, saiv their children 
Left on the laud, extending their arms, with wildest entreaties. — Page 39. 

" Parents were separated from children, and husbands from wives, some of 
whom have not to this day met again ; and we were so crowded in the trans- 
port vessels, that we had not room even for all our bodies to lay down at once, 
and, consequently, were prevented from carrying with us proper necessaries, 
especially for the support and comfort of the aged and weak, many of whom 
quickly ended their misery with their lives."— Petition of the Acadians to the 
King. 

Many, despairing, heart-broken, 
Ashed of the earth but a grave, and no longer a friend nor a fireside. 
Written their history stands on tablets of stone in the churchyards — Page 48. 

" We have already seen, in this province of Pennsylvania, two hundred 
and fifty of our people, which is more than half the number that were landed 
here, perish through misery and various diseases." — Petition of the Acadians 
to the lung. 

There old Rene Leblanc had died ; and when he departed, 

Saw at his side only one of all his hundred descendants. — Page 81. 

" Bene Leblanc, the notary-public before mentioned, was seized, confined, 
and brought away among the rest of the people, and his family, consisting of 
twenty children and about one hundred and fifty grandchildren, were scattered in 
different colonies, so that he was put on shore at New York, with only his wife 
and youngest children, in an infirm state of health, from whence he joined 
three more of his children at Philadelphia, where he died without any more 
notice being taken of him than any of us, notwithstanding his many years' 
labour and deep sufferings for your Majesty's service." — Petition of the Aca- 
dians to the King. 

Behold, at last 

Each tall and tapering mast 

Is swung into its place. — Page 131. 

I wish to anticipate a criticism on this passage by stating, that sometimes, 






NOTES. 3-><) 

though not usually, vessels are launched fully rigged and sparred. I have 
availed myself of the exception, as hetter suited to my purposes than the 
general rule ; but the reader will see that it is neither a blunder nor a poetic 
license. On this subject, a friend in Portland, Maine, writes me thus: — 

" In this State, and also I am told, in Xew York, ships are sometimes 
rigged upon the stocks, in order to save time, or to make a show. There 
was a fine, large ship launched last summer at Ellsworth, fully rigged and 
sparred. Some years ago a ship was launched here, with her rigging, spars 
sails, and cargo aboard. She sailed the next day, and — was never heard of 
again ! I hope this will not be the fate of your poem !" 



Sir Humphrey Gilbert. — Page 144. 

" When the wind abated and the vessels were near enough, the Admiral 
was seen constantly sitting in the stern, with a book in his hand. On the 
9th of September, he was seen for the last time, and was heard by the people 
of the Hind to say, ' We are as near heaven by sea as by land.' In the fol- 
lowing night, the lights of the ship suddenly disappeared. The people in 
the other vessel kept a good look-out for him during the remainder of the 
voyage. On the 22nd of September, they arrived, through much tempest and 
peril, at Falmouth. But nothing more was seen or heard of the Admiral." 
— Belknap's American Biography, I. 203. 



Walter von der Vogehveide. — Page 218. 

Walter von der Vogelweide, or Bird-Meadow, was one of the principal 
Minnesingers of the thirteenth century. He triumphed over Henrich von 
Ofterdingen in that poetic contest at Wartburg Castle, known in literary 
history as the War of Wartburg. 



Like imperial Charlemagne. — Page 229. 

Charlemagne may be called by preeminence the monarch of farmers. 
According to the German tradition, in seasons of great abundance, his spirit 
crosses the Bhine on a golden bridge at Bingen, and blesses the corn-fields 



330 NOTES. 



and the vineyards. During his lifetime, he did not disdain, says Mon- 
tesquieu, " to sell the eggs from the farm-yards of his domains, and the 
superfluous vegetables of his gardens ; while he distributed among his people 
the wealth of the Lombards and the immense treasures of the Huns." 



All the Foresters of Flanders. — Page 278. 

The title of Foresters was given to the early governors of Flanders, 
appointed by the kings of France. Lyderick du Bucq, in the days of Clotaire 
the Second, was the first of them; and Beaudoin Bras-de-Fer, who stole away 
the fair Judith, daughter of Charles the Bald, from the French court, and 
married her in Bruges, was the last. After him, the title of Forester was 
changed to that of Coimt. Philippe d' Alsace, Guy de Dampierre, and Louis 
de Crecy, coming later in the order of time, were therefore rather Counts 
than Foresters. Philippe went twice to the Holy Land, as a Crusader, and 
died of the plague at St. Jean-d'Acre, shortly after the capture of the city 
by the Christians. Guy de Dampierre died in the prison of Compiegne. 
Louis de Crecy was son and successor of Robert de Bethune, who strangled his 
wife, Yolande de Bourgogne, with the bridle of his horse, for having poisoned, 
at the age of eleven years, Charles, his son by his first wife, Blanche d'Anjou. 



Stately dames, like queens attended. — Page 278. 

When Philippe-le-Bel, king of France, visited Flanders with his queen, 
she was so astonished at the magnificence of the dames of Bruges, that she 
exclaimed, — "Je croyais etre seule reine ici, mais il par ait que ceiix de 
Flandre qui se trouvent dans nos prisons sont tous des princes, car leurs 
femnies sont habillees comme des princesses et des reines." 

"When the burgomasters of Ghent, Bruges, and Ypres, went to Paris to 
pay homage to King John, in 1351, they were received with great pomp 
and distinction ; but, being invited to a festival, they observed that their 
seats at table were not furnished with cushions ; whereupon, to make known 
their displeasure at this want of regard to their dignity, they folded their 
richly embroidered cloaks, and seated themselves upon them. On rising from 
table, they left their cloaks behind them, and, being informed of their apparent 



NOTES. 



forgetfulness, Simon van Eertrycke, burgomaster of Bruges, replied, — "We 
Flemings are not in the habit of carrying away our cushions after dinner." 



Knights who bore the Fleece of Gold. — Page 278. 

Philippe de Bourgogne, surnamed Le Bon, espoused Isabella of Portugal , 
on the 10th of January, 1430; and on the same day instituted the famous 
order of the Fleece of Gold. 



i" beheld the gentle Mary. — Page 279. 

Marie de Valois, Duchess of Burgundy, was left by the death of her 
father, Charles-le-Temeraire, at the age of twenty, the richest heiress of 
Europe. She came to Bruges, as Countess of Flanders, in 1477, and in the 
same year was married by proxy to the Archduke Maximilian. According 
to the custom of the time, the Duke of Bavaria, Maximilian's substitute, 
slept with the princess. They were both in complete dress, separated by a 
naked sword, and attended by four armed guards. Mary was adored by her 
subjects for her gentleness and her many other virtues. 

Maximilian was son of the Emperor Frederick the Third, and is the same 
person mentioned afterwards in the poem of Nuremberg as the Kaiser Maxi- 
milian, and the hero of Pflnzing's poem of TeuerdanJc. Having been im- 
prisoned by the revolted burghers of Bruges, they refused to release him, till 
he consented to kneel in the public square, and to swear on the Holy Evan- 
gelists and the body of Saint Donatus, that he would not take vengeance 
upon them for their rebellion. 



The bloody battle of the Spurs of Gold. —Page 279. 

This battle, the most memorable in Flemish history, was fought under 
the walls of Courtray, on the 11th of July, 1302, between the French and 
the Flemings, the former commanded by Robert, Comte d'Artois, and the 
latter by Guillaume de Juliers, and Jean, Comte de Namur. The French 
army was completely routed, with a loss of twenty thousand infantry and 
seven thousand cavalry; among whom were sixty-three princes, dukes, and 



332 NOTES. 

counts, seven hundred lords-banneret, and eleven hundred noblemen. The 
flower of the French nobility perished on that day ; to which history has 
given the name of the Journee des EjJerons d'Or, from the great number of 
golden spurs found on the field of battle. Seven hundred of them were 
hung up as a trophy in the church of Notre Dame de Courtray ; and, as the 
cavaliers of that day wore but a single spur each, these vouched to God for 
the violent and bloody death of seven hundred of his creatures. 

Saw the fight at Minnewater. — Page 279. 

When the inhbaitants of Bruges were digging a canal at Minnewater, 
to bring the waters of the Lys from Deynze to their city, they were attacked 
and routed by the citizens of Ghent, whose commerce would have been much 
injured by the canal. They were led by Jean Lyons, captain of a military 
company at Ghent, called the Chaperons Blancs. He had great sway over 
the turbulent populace, who, in those prosperous times of the city, gained 
an easy livelihood by labouring two or three days in the week, and had the 
remaining four or five to devote to public affairs. The fight at Minnewater 
was followed by open rebellion against Louis de Maele, the Count of Flan- 
ders and Protector of Bruges. His superb chateau of "Wondelghem was 
pillaged and burnt ; and the insurgents forced the gates of Bruges, and 
entered in triumph with Lyons mounted at their head. A few days after- 
wards he died suddenly, perhaps by poison. 

Meanwhile the insurgents received a check at the village of Nevele ; and 
two hundred of them perished in the church, which was burned by the Count's 
orders. One of the chiefs, Jean de Lannoy, took refuge in the belfry; From 
the summit of the tower he held forth his purse filled with gold, and begged 
for deliverance. It was in vain. His enemies cried to him from below to 
save himself as best he might ; and, half suffocated with smoke and flame, 
he threw himself from the tower, and perished at their feet. Peace was soon 
afterwards established, and the Count retired to faithful Bruges. 



The Golden Dragon's nest. — Page 279. 

The Golden Dragon, taken from the church of St. Sophia, at Constanti- 
nople, in one of the Crusades, and placed on the belfry of Bruges, was after- 



NOTES. 333 

wards transported to Ghent by Philip van Artevelde, and still adorns the 
belfry of that city. 

The inscription on the alarm-bell at Ghent is, " Mynen naem is Roland ; 
als ik klep is er brand, and als ik luy is er victorie in het land." My name 
is Eoland ; when I toll there is fire, and when I ring there is victory in the 
land. 

That their great imperial city stretched its hand through every clime. — Page 286 
An old popular proverb of the town runs thus : — 

" Number g , s hand 
Geht durch alle Land.'''' 

Nuremberg's hand 

Goes through every land. 

Sat the poet Melchior singing Kaiser Maximilian's praise. — Page 285. 

Melchior Pfinzing was one of the most celebrated German poets of the 
sixteenth century. The hero of his Tuerdank was the reigning emperor, 
Maximilian ; and the poem was to the Germans of that day what the Orlando 
Furioso was to the Italians. Maximilian is mentioned before, in the Belfry 
of Bruges. See Page 277. 

In the church of sainted Sebald sleeps enshrined his holy dust. — Page 285. 

The tomb of Saint Sebald, in the church which bears his name, is one of 
the richest works of art in Nuremberg. It is of bronze, and was cast by 
Peter Yischer and his sons, who laboured upon it thirteen years. It is 
adorned with nearly one hundred figures, among which those of the Twelve 
Apostles are conspicuous for size and beauty. 

In the church of sainted Lawrence stands a pix of sculpture rare. — Page 286. 

This pix, or tabernacle for the vessels of the sacrament is by the hand of 

Adam Kraft. It is an exquisite piece of sculpture in white stone, and rises 

to the height of sixty-four feet. It stands in the choir, whose richly painted 

windows cover it with varied colours. 

R R 



334 NOTES. 

Wisest of the Twelve Wise Masters.— Vagk 287. 

The Twelve Wise Masters was the title of the original corporation of the 
Mastersingers. Hans Sachs, the cobbler of Nuremberg, though not one of 
the original Twelve^. was the most renowned of the Mastersingers, as well 
as the most voluminous. He flourished in the sixteenth century ; and left 
behind him thirty-four folio volumes of manuscript, containing two hundred 
and eight plays, one thousand and seven hundred comic tales, and between 
four and five thousand lyric poems. 

As in Adam Puschman's song. — Page 287. 

Adam Puschman, in his poem on the death of Hans Sachs describes him 
as he appeared in a vision : — 

"An old man, 
Gray and white, and dove like, 
Who had, in sooth, a great beard, 
And read in a fair, great book, 
Beautiful with golden clasps." 

The Occultation of Orion. — Page 305. 

Astronomically speaking, this title is incorrect ; as I apply to a constel- 
lation what can properly be applied to some of its stars only. But my 
observation is made from the hill of song, and not from that of science ; and 
will, I trust, be found sufficiently accurate for the present purpose. 



HENRY VUETELLY, PRINTER AND ENGRAVER, GOCGH SQL'ARE, FLEE I' STREET, LONDON. 



ILLUSTRATED ENGLISH CLASSICS. 



'Uniform with the present Volume, in two handsome Volumes, 

THE POETICAL WORKS OF JOHN MILTON, 

With a Memoir and Critical Remarks on his "Works, by James Montgomery, 

And One Hundred and Twenty Engravings by Thompson, Williams, &c, 

from Drawings by William Harvey. 

24s. cloth : 34s. morocco. 



THE POETICAL WORKS OF WILLIAM COWPER, 

With Biographical and Critical Introduction, by the Eev. Thomas Dale, M. A., 

And Seventy-five Illustrations, engraved by J. Orrin Smith, from 

Drawings by John Gilbert. 



THOMSON'S SEASONS 
AND THE CASTLE OF INDOLENCE, 

With Biographical and Critical Introduction by Allan Cunningham. 
The Illustrations drawn and engraved by Samuel Williams. 



THE POETICAL WORKS OF JAMES BEATTIE 
AND WILLIAM COLLINS, 

With Biographical Memoirs, and numerous Illustrations engraved by 
Samuel Williams, &c, from Drawings by John Absolon. 



DAVID BOGUE, 86 FLEET STREET. 



**."* 



I/O 



<u» 



Deacidified using the Bookkeeper process. 
Neutralizing agent: Magnesium Oxide 
Treatment Date: Sept. 2009 

PreservationTechnologies 

A WORLD LEADER IN COLLECTIONS PRESERVATION 

111 Thomson Park Drive 
Cranberry Township, PA 1 6066 
(724)779-2111 



